


Hazy Shade of Winter

by GeekPrincess



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Getting Together, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mary Ships It, Monster of the Week, Post-Season/Series 11, Sam Ships It, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekPrincess/pseuds/GeekPrincess
Summary: A string of strange deaths and bizarre weather patterns in rural Wyoming attract the attention of Team Free Will. A hunt seems the perfect distraction as each struggles to find his place following Mary’s resurrection and Lucifer’s escape. But reuniting with Mary and one of their own falling prey to the creature haunting the frozen foothills may prove too much for them to handle.





	Hazy Shade of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as a dream right around the new year. I told the premise to Areiton, who I had just began a twitter friendship with, and she encouraged me to write it. This story brought me deeper into the SPN fandom, bringing with it more friends, and confidence to write more, and join bangs, etc. So to say this story is very important to me is an understatement. 
> 
> My anime watching youth definitely inspired large parts of this story; as well as a lifetime fascination with Eastern culture and religion. Also, my love for history, and research. I have never been to Wyoming but I enjoyed learning about it and the area of Heart Mountain as I researched where to set my story. I have been to Japantown, San Fransisco however, and it is lovely. 
> 
> Massive thanks to [Areiton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton), [OceanBlueCas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanbluecas/pseuds/oceanbluecas), and [A_Diamond](http://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Diamond) for each playing a part in helping this story take shape. Also, a big, squishy hug to my artist [Busy Squirrel](http://busysquirrel.tumblr.com/) for the gift of her accompanying art.

**Hazy Shade of Winter**

 

**December 4th**

 

Somewhere north of Cody, Wyoming, Castiel wipes at the snot freezing on his upper lip and offers a curse in perfect Enochian to the heavens. He knows no one is listening, yet oddly, it does makes him feel better. Cas closes his eyes against the driving sleet and snow and forces himself to concentrate. He is cold, hungry, and tired of trudging through a blizzard in search of whatever creature has already left three dead in the past month.

 

During moments like this he misses the quiet, omnipresent warmth of grace flowing through his vessel. In the months following Lucifer's expulsion from his body and the strain of banishment at the hands of the British Men of Letters, Castiel's grace is again kitten weak. He’s an angel in name only most days—precariously perched at the edge of not truly angelic and not quite human.

 

Yet he rarely mourns the loss these days, unlike he had when Metatron has siphoned grace from him years before. This time Dean had welcomed him home, insisted he stay, made him coffee and eggs, taught him to launder his clothes, and helped him pick blankets and pillows for his bed (in his very own room at the bunker). Once they had rescued Sam from Toni Bevell and the awkwardness of Mary's return had settled, he'd found himself mostly, unbelievably, content—even happy, perhaps.

 

A particularly blustery wind rattles the branches above him, causing snow to dump heavy over his hooded head and shoulders. Cas scowls, swipes irritably at his nose once more, and starts walking again, fighting the urge to pull out his mobile phone and check his position on the map. He stills feels a wan connection to the earth and heavens, one that results in his rarely taking a wrong turn or losing his sense of direction. He's irrationally grateful for that, especially now, as he and the Winchesters explore the foothills and scrub forests of rural Wyoming in a grid pattern. They’re trying to identify what left three perfectly healthy men dead and frozen—men whom friends and colleagues had assured them were capable outdoorsmen, each raised and living locally, familiar with the land and the ways to survive here as Cas and the Winchesters are not.

 

Castiel scoffs at this thought as he struggles up a snow laden crest to survey where the land curves down to the hidden waters of the Yellowstone River. He frowns, mentally charting the land he’s covered so far and how much more is left before he meets Sam back at his truck, Mary and Dean having chosen to explore a bit more east from the Impala.

 

Cas pulls his glove off with his teeth and wakens his phone with a touch. He quickly sends a text off to Sam, informing the hunter he has reached the river and will be heading back shortly. He doesn't wait for a response before shoving the device back in a pocket and slipping his already red and numbing fingers back into his glove.

 

A noise catches his attention. He cocks his head, eyes fluttering closed as he listens for the sound he had detected rising subtly over the wind and snow. He stands motionless, barely breathing for several moments, letting the icy gusts wash over him.

 

There it is again—a soft keening call. Cas opens his eyes and surveys the white-washed landscape once more, still seeing nothing unusual, no living creature other than himself out in this storm. Frown morphing into a scowl, he pivots, ready to head back the way he came.

 

And then, the sound is louder, closer, right atop him. He spins, heart hammering in his chest, to see a figure clothed in white, long dark hair whipping around a pale, oval face mere inches from his own. Castiel takes a step back, and the figure's arm raises. His vision is swimming as the snowy hills reel wildly about him. He stumbles to a knee. A cold slither of wind pushes under his coat, causing a chill to shoot up his spine.

 

Everything goes black.

 

 

Mary swears under her breath, gripping the door handle tight enough to turn her knuckles white as Dean steers the Impala down the snowy single lane highway. Her eldest son scowls and shifts down gear as he feels the tires slide ever so slightly under them. Haste means nothing if he wrecks Baby, and them with her.

 

“Dean,” Mary admonishes.

 

Dean's grim expression tightens further. He grinds out, “I know.”

 

Mary bites her lip harshly and turns her gaze out the windshield. Sam had called nearly two hours ago to tell them Castiel hadn't returned to the truck and wasn't answering his phone. She and Dean had quickly abandoned their canvassing to return to the Impala and begin making their way down Hwy 120, towards Sam's location.

 

The weather hasn't been on their side. The tense trek back to the car took well over an hour in ever growing ridges of wind-blown snow, and then they'd had to dig snow away from the tires to even get the car back on the road. By the time they had pulled onto the blacktop, Dean was quivering with restrained anger, though Mary wasn't sure entirely where that anger was currently directed.

 

Silence thickens the air between them as Mary tries and fails to think of something—anything—to say to calm Dean down. Mentally, she berates herself (again) for her inability to relate to her children, even if they remain virtual strangers to her. She knows that it’s her fault. Fleeing from the bunker had been selfish, only alienating her further from Sam and, especially, Dean. Though he'd been the first to reach out — texting, and challenging her to games on her phone — her relationship with Dean was still filled with tension. At least she and Sam had begun to tentatively map out common ground now that she was assisting on the occasional case again.

 

Her phone rings and Mary jumps at the shrill tone in the silence of the cab. When she pulls it out, she’s relieved to see Sam's name on the screen as she accepts the call.

 

“Sam, I’ve got you on speaker.”

 

“Hey Mom, Dean,” Sam nearly shouts into the phone, voice obscured by wind. “I found Cas. He's unconscious, but I can’t figure out why.”

 

Mary glances at Dean, whose hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly the leather creaks beneath his fingers. Dean growls, “Send us the GPS coordinates, Sam. And try to either get him warm or awake, preferably both.”

 

The reception dips in and out but they hear Sam huff between the static. “Doing my best, Dean, but I can't carry him back to the truck on my own, so get here soon as you can.”

 

The call drops and Mary stares at the small device until a text lights the screen up with Sam's location. Dean tersely walks her through plugging the coordinates into the tracking app Sam installed on all their mobile phones. It takes several heart pounding moments for the device to contact the server satellite and bring up their location in relationship to Sam and Cas's. Mary nervously chews her lip as she takes in the map.

 

“Dean, there's a smaller road coming up on the right, but in this weather...I don’t know. I’m not sure Baby can handle it.”

 

“She'll handle it.”

 

Mary frowns. “Dean, I understand you're worried, but stranding all of us isn't going to help Castiel.”

 

Dean angrily slams his hand on the steering wheel. “If we enter the hills from where they parked the truck, Cas and Sam could be hypothermic by the time we reach them. We're taking that road, Mom, so help me keep an eye out for it.”

 

Within moments their turn is in sight. Dean carefully maneuvers the Impala through it.

 

Mary checks the map again. “We should cross two small tributaries of the Yellowstone, then about a quarter mile later, the road veers hard left again. That’s the best place for us to park and get out,” Mary relates neutrally. Dean nods in understanding, continuing to glare hostilely through the windshield at the blizzard.

 

Predictably, they don't get nearly that far before the snow is just too much for the car. Mary swallows any and all _I told you so's_ and pulls her gloves on. She looks at her son—the tense line of his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw—and sees utter fear. She's seen it on other hunters throughout her life—and on Dean's face the first time she entered the bunker and he saw the bloody sigil painted on the wall.

 

Not for the first time since her resurrection, she wonders if he even knows how deeply he feels towards Castiel. But now is not the time or place (it never is and might never be). She unlatches her seat belt. “Let's go.”

 

Dean takes a breath, forcing his hands to release the steering wheel, and nods. “Yeah, I'm coming.”

 

 

**Two Days Earlier**

 

Sam tosses his duffel on the closest bed and takes a moment to stretch, sighing in relief as his back pops loudly. Dean shoots him a look from the other side of the room. “Dude, gross.”

 

The younger Winchester snorts and rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Dean.”

 

Dean resumes digging through his bag, letting out a little 'aha' of success as he pulls out a pair of thick wool socks. He tosses them towards the pull-out where Cas sits, arms wrapped tightly around his torso.

 

“There ya go, Cas. Those should help.”

 

Cas murmurs a thanks and tugs off his thin white socks and replaces them with the wool ones. He shoves his feet back in his shoes and gives a contented little sigh. “This is much better.”

 

Sam shakes his head and flops on the foot of his bed. He watches as Dean checks his phone, telling them Mary will be there in another hour or so. His gaze slides over to Castiel, still sitting in his coat and looking uncomfortable. If they had learned one thing these past few months, it was that Cas hated being cold. Sam mentally makes a list of items to pick up for the quasi-angel on their next shopping run—wool socks, more flannels, maybe even splurge on a Carhartt or North Face coat. Cas is worth the extra cost.

 

As if he can sense Sam's thoughts, Cas meets his gaze and offers him a thin smile. He mouths _I'm fine_ at the younger brother, then turns his attention to the remote on the scratched and filmy table before him. He turns on the television, looking for something other than the broadcast static as white as the snow piling up outside. Cas settles on a channel airing a game show, the audio buzzing in and out with the weak signal, and Sam turns his attention away. He ends up dozing lightly to the sound of Dean affectionately teasing Cas for his choice and their soft back and forth debate regarding quality TV.

 

Sam sleepily considers the warm, easy tone in his brother's voice. He’s glad that Cas and Dean seem to be working through some of their issues now that Cas is living with them. Sam is no fool—he's seen the looks Dean gives Castiel when he isn't looking, weighted stares full of complex emotions. If Sam were a betting man, he'd put his money on his brother being completely and ridiculously smitten with their celestial friend.

 

But Sam isn't one for gambling, or getting glared at for talking about _feelings_ with his brother. Dean will either figure it out or he won't, and nothing Sam can do or say will change that.

 

Sam blinks back into awareness when he hears a firm knock on the door to their room. He heaves himself from the bed, as he is technically the closest, and opens the door to Mary's lovely face smiling nervously. “Hey, Sam.”

 

“Hi, Mom.” Sam steps aside so she can enter, hand reaching up to lightly touch her elbow as she passes. He shuts the door and turns to see her giving him a warm look, opening her arms for a hug that he gladly accepts. They step apart and he motions her to the couch where Dean and Cas are now arguing over answers to _Family Feud_. She bites her lip, eyeing the pair before looking questioningly at Sam. He shrugs and grabs his notes before plopping down on the coffee table, blocking the view of the television and earning twin scowls.

 

“Okay, so in the past month, three men have gone missing and have subsequently been found dead in the foothills northwest of Cody. I know it doesn't sound like our kind of thing, except I followed a hunch and called the ME office. All three men died of unknown causes _before_ they could succumb to hypothermia. Also, this string of snowy weather isn't usual this time of year. It's December and this region gets most of it's snow in late January. Again, not weird on it's own, I know, but together with the fact that all _three_ of these guys were locals and were experienced hunters and trappers—they all seem to have just parked their cars along Hwy 120 and walked to their deaths.”

 

Dean makes a face to acknowledge Sam’s point and sits back, laying an arm along the back of the couch, fingers close enough to Cas's neck to brush the line of tanned skin above his shirt collar.

 

Sam blinks questioningly at his brother before turning to his Mom. “Thanks for coming up to help us. We have a lot of ground to cover and honestly no idea what we're even looking for.”

 

Castiel clears his throat. “Sam and I spent the last few days going through lore and what records for the region we could find online. We haven't found much. It's possible a similar string of foul weather and deaths have occurred before—twice, we suspect—but it’s little more than conjecture.”

 

“Well,” Dean sighs, “If both you and Sam got your panties in a bunch over this, then it’s worth looking into.”

 

Mary nods. “I agree. Do you mind if I look over what you have? I'm a better visual learner than aural.”

 

Sam hands over his notebook with a nod. In his periphery, he sees Cas lean his head back, meeting Dean's fingers on the back of the couch. Instead of pulling away, Dean's hand curls to cup the back of Castiel's head, lightly scratching his scalp. Cas makes a soft noise, eyes fluttering shut as a small smile curls his lips.

 

Sam rolls his eyes and prays they get their shit together soon.

 

 

**Present**

 

There is a clock ticking away in Dean's head. Sam found Cas forty minutes ago. They realized Cas was missing around three and a half _hours_ ago, which means Cas has likely been hurt and unconscious in a blizzard for more than four, maybe closer to five, hours. How long can a human survive in this kind of weather? An angel would hardly notice, but Cas is hardly an angel these days, going so far as to layer his clothes like he and Sam to fight of the chill of the bunker.

 

The clock ticks louder. Dean grinds his teeth and ignores it.

 

Beside him, Mary stumbles on brush hidden in the snow. Without thinking, Dean reaches out and grabs her arm, holding her steady until she finds better footing. She shoots him a thankful look as he releases her. They don't speak, but that's hardly a surprise. Dean's no good at talking when it matters. They're both focused on reaching Sam and Cas as quickly as possible, united in a goal once more. _That's more important right now_ , he thinks somberly.

 

They scramble over another ridge and there, finally, is a dark smudge against the blinding white. Dean swallows a shout and increases his pace, careful to not catch his foot or turn an ankle in the deeply buried scrub. Sam notices them, giving a wave to show he's okay. He's dug out a berm against the wind, sitting with Castiel pulled against him, curled in his lap like an oversized child. The visual causes Dean's stomach to turn over, already churning with worry and guilt.

 

He stumbles to his knees next to them and glances at Sam. “You good?”

 

Sam nods. “Yeah, I'm okay, all things considered.”

 

Dean tugs off a glove and slips his hand inside Cas's hood, pressing fingers to his neck. He hisses. Cas is ice cold but a pulse flutters beneath his fingers. Cursing aloud, Dean shifts, gently tugging at Cas's heavy eyelids. There’s pupil response, sluggish, but there. _That's good, at least,_ he thinks. He doesn't like the pallor painting Castiel's normally tanned complexion. He certainly doesn't like that the celestial being is still unconscious, that fact alone sending warning bells off in his head.

 

Dean pulls the backpack he'd retrieved from the trunk off his back, bringing out a length of rope.

 

Sam's eyes light with understanding, already catching onto Dean's plan. He nods and pushes Cas’s weight forward. With Mary's help, they shift Cas off Sam's lap and heave him onto Dean's back where he kneels in the snow. Sam then wraps loops of rope around Cas's legs and torso, lashing his weight against Dean to ensure he won't slip off.

 

With a grunt and a hand on Sam's shoulder for stability, Dean rises to his feet, adjusting Cas's weight, then signals he's good to go. He ignores the look that passes between his mother and brother. He doesn't have the energy to comment right now, nor the presence of mind. Cas's heaviness is almost too much, and awkward to carry in the snow. Logically, he knows Sam is built better for this, as do the other two Winchesters, but Dean is grateful no one wastes time or breath arguing the point. He's not good at explaining how he feels obligated to care for Cas, that the angel is his responsibility. It’s a burden, yes, but a welcome one.

 

Mary presses his forgotten glove to his hand, helping him get it back on his numb fingers. He nods his thanks, ignoring the tight, worried expression on her face. She moves to the lead, guiding them back to the waiting Impala. Sam stays near his side and a step behind, a hand on Cas's hip to help Dean with balance.

 

The clock is ticking loudly in Dean's head again. It’s an hour back to the car, another half an hour back to the motel, probably more in this weather. It’ll be at _least_ seven hours since something befell Castiel before they can get him warm and search his body properly for injury.

 

Dean viciously stomps down his growing fear that whatever is affecting Cas is deadly serious, and concentrates instead on moving forward, on not stumbling or losing his center of balance and spilling them both into the snow.

 

 

Mary hits the motel door at a run, hands scrambling to slide the key card into it's slot. A small green indicator lights up, the bolts sliding free, and she pushes the door open. Sam strides through it, carrying Castiel bridal style. He bypasses the two double beds for the small, cramped bathroom. Through the open door, she sees him carefully rest the unconscious angel on the toilet seat and begin pulling his outer garments off. Dean brushes past her, hands sliding across the back of her own where they still rest on the doorknob. She jerks her gaze up to meet his.

 

“Grab extra blankets from your room, please,” he says, voice soft and gruff.

 

She nods and slips out the still open door. Four doors down, she fumbles with her own keycard, dropping it to the concrete twice before finally getting the room unlocked. She quickly strips the bed, nearly tripping over a trailing corner of the comforter before she makes it back to her son's' room. She kicks at their door, no hand free to knock. She hears shuffling, Dean's voice rising to ask Sam a question, then the quiet murmur of his response, before her eldest pulls the door open and takes the bedding from her.

 

Mary blinks in surprise. In the scant moments she was gone, the coffee table was shoved against the wall and both mattresses were pulled to the floor, side by side, in front of the sofa. Together they take up almost every inch of space in the room. Upon them, Dean heaps every blanket, sheet and scrap of bedding he can find, creating a virtual nest on the floor. She hovers nearby, not sure how to help.

 

Dean stalks to the bathroom doorway. “Sam, how is he?”

 

“I don't see any injuries. I have no idea why he's unconscious.”

 

Dean scowls. Mary swallows down a flair of fear at the anger that washes over her son's face, like storm clouds across the sky, settling dark and daunting in his eyes.

 

“Bring him in here. We need to get him warm.” Dean's tone leaves no room for argument. This is an order, not a request. She can hear the echoes of John—and her own father—in that voice.

 

Sam moves to obey without hesitation. The two of them lift and carry Cas's limp form into the middle of the nest. Dean quickly slides down next to him, pulling the angel against his chest and tugging the blankets up around them. Sam kicks his boots to the corner, tearing off his coat and outer layers before laying down as well, sandwiching Cas between the brothers.

 

Mary shakes herself from her stupor. She shrugs off her jacket, tossing it on the sofa as she moves to the tiny kitchenette to start the coffee maker. It only takes a moment for the brewer to fill the small pot. She pours the brew into a cup and carefully tiptoes to Sam's side, where she kneels and extends the cup.

 

“Sam, you've been out in the cold too long, as well. Drink.”

 

Sam gives her a grateful look and props himself up on an elbow to take the mug, sipping at the hot beverage every few seconds. “Thanks, Mom.”

 

She offers a weak smile in return. “You're welcome.”

 

Mary reaches past him and tucks the top edge of the blanket more tightly around Castiel's shoulders, pausing to lay her palm against his brow, checking his temperature. She notices a flash of surprise on Dean's face and tries not to be hurt by his reaction to her unsolicited, caring gesture. She chews her lip, considering her words.

 

“I’m aware Castiel and I don't know each other well, but he's family right? That's what you keep telling me.”

 

Dean blanches. “Y-yeah, I said that.”

 

“Okay, then. He's important to you and Sam. Of course I want to help take care of him.”

 

Her son nods, closing his eyes and burrowing closer to the angel. Mary feels a surge of affection for them both, a real smile curling her lips this time. She turns back to Sam and sees his cup empty. She takes it from him, turning and opening her mouth to ask Dean if he'd also like a cup, but his brow has already smoothed, face slack in a light doze. Loathe to disturb him, she carefully climbs to her feet and sets the empty mug next to the coffee pot, suddenly needing to feel productive.

 

Mary finds everyone's mobiles in their discarded clothing and plugs them in to charge, two in the bathroom, two on the nightstand between the naked box springs. She then retreats to her own room to shower and change, returning half an hour later to find the hunters deeply asleep, cradling Castiel between their bodies. Again, the warmth of affection filling her chest takes her by surprise.

 

Mary swallows a breathless laugh and steps past them to the sofa, Sam's notes in hand. She settles in to read, reviewing what they know in hopes of figuring out what killed those three men and what, presumably, attacked Castiel. She isn't sure how long she reads, but as she finally succumbs to her own exhaustion, she knows dark of night has settled over the land and the snow has finally ceased to fall.

 

 

 

**December 5th**

 

It is with no uncertain amount of confusion that Castiel blinks slowly awake. First of all, he is much warmer than he remembers. Second, it is night. Thirdly, it appears at some point he was reunited with the Winchesters and returned to their motel. Gentle snores disturb the silence in regular intervals as he listens, cataloging the sounds of each person in the room. Mary's soft, barely perceptible huffs come from the sofa above and behind him. Sam's louder snuffling inhalations are to his right. Dean's silent, steady breaths send warm air puffing against his neck on the left.

 

Castiel feels safe —protected — nestled between the brothers amidst the blankets . He also feels an embarrassed flush stain his cheeks, glad that no one is awake to see it. He knows he should move, let them know he is awake, ask what happened, but he's too comfortable. So instead, he closes his eyes to the night and tries to piece together what happened to lead him to this moment.

 

He remembers a wail, a female's cry carried on the wind. He remembers turning to find the woman—or creature, he presumes—to be right in front of him. He recalls her pale, ethereal beauty, the brilliant violet shade of her eyes, the bloodless pallor of her lips. Then, nothing.

 

Dean shuffles in his sleep, arm tightening around Castiel's waist. The movement again causes pink to raise in the angel's face, a mixture of affection and shame flooding his veins, elevating his heart rate.

 

He needs to move. He can't stay here, wrapped in the warmth of the Winchesters, safe in the knowledge they came for him, rescued him. He feels guilty for needing their care, for wanting it, for wanting—

 

No. He forces those thoughts away. They are dangerous, poison. They will slither into the dark spaces of his heart and take root until he cannot ignore them. That can’t be allowed, ever.

 

“Cas?”

 

His heart shudders annoyingly in his chest. He opens his eyes and turns to his head to his right, Sam's sleepy hazel gaze meeting his.

 

The youngest Winchester offers him a relieved, if sleepy, smile. “Hey.”

 

“Hello, Sam.”

 

“You had us pretty worried. You—you feel okay?”

 

Cas considers, then nods slightly. “Yes, I think so.” His brow furrows. “I’m very tired, though I assume since it's past nightfall, I've been out for some time.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam rolls to his back so he can see the red face of the alarm clock on the nightstand. “You've been out almost twelve hours.”

 

The angel absorbs the information with a frown. That’s disconcerting.

 

“Cas.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Sam huffs his amusement. “Go back to sleep. We'll figure this out in the morning.”

 

Cas nods into the darkness. He listens as Sam drifts back to sleep, snoring once more. He hears one of their phones buzz somewhere in the room but he feels no interest in investigating. He is exhausted, his very bones aching with fatigue, but sleep eludes him for a while yet. He concentrates on the rhythm of Dean's exhalations against his skin, the steady beat of the hunter's heart against his flank. Cas slides his hand tentatively up the arm sprawled across his belly until his palm rests upon Dean's bicep, fingers aligning where once a handprint stood red and angry against Dean's pale, freckled skin. Castiel lets out a long, contented breath and sinks back into sleep at last.

 

The second time Cas wakes, he immediately knows he isn't the only one conscious. He feels the absence of warmth on his right and can hear the shower running behind the closed bathroom door. Dean's steady heart beat has changed as well, slightly faster now. Cas angles his head slightly to the left and sees Dean watching him with intense focus.

 

Cas licks his perpetually chapped lips. “Dean.”

 

Dean's eyes lighten, some of his immediate concern alleviated. “Hey, Cas.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Dean's face scrunches with confusion. “What?”

 

“I assume Sam was the one that realized I had not returned to our rendezvous point. I'm sure you—all of you—were concerned. You had to find and rescue me, which put the three of you in danger and delayed solving the case.”

 

Anger flashes in Dean's all too green eyes. “Damn it, Cas.”

 

Cas fights the urge to flinch, keeping his gaze locked with the hunter's.

 

Dean falters, licking his own lips. “It's not—not like that. I thought—we've _talked_ about this. You're family, Cas. You're mine— _ours_ to protect. You'd do the same for us. So just stop. None of that guilty ‘I’m sorry’ shit. Okay?”

 

Cas cannot help the small smile at Dean's words. “Okay.”

 

Both angel and hunter jump when Sam remarks from the bathroom door, “Good. Now that you're both awake and that—whatever that was—is out of the way, let's get focused.” He pauses to pull a t-shirt over his damp head, smirk in place when he continues. “Mom’s off trying to find breakfast. Help me fix the room before she gets back.”

 

Dean insists that he and Sam be the ones to heave the mattresses back to their proper places. Cas is eager to protest yet senses his muscles are still worryingly weak from the day before. He settles for heaping the shared bedding back on the beds, leaving the sorting to be figured out later. He shivers a bit and after a moment’s hesitation, snags a blanket and wraps it tightly around his shoulders, then settles in a corner of the sofa.

 

Dean heads into the bathroom for a shower himself. Cas watches Sam pull a flannel over his t-shirt and retrieve his laptop from his duffel. He sets it on the table and glances worriedly at the bundled angel.

 

“Still cold?”

 

Cas shrugs. “No. Yes.”

 

Sam snorts. “There's still one pack of grounds left. Would you like some coffee?”

 

Cas's eyes light up with interest. “Yes, please.”

 

By the time Sam is pressing a hot mug of coffee into Cas's chilly hands, Mary is pushing the door open with her hip, two bags bearing golden arches clutched to her chest. Sam unpacks a dozen breakfast biscuits, hash browns, and numerous packets of condiments while Mary returns to the car to bring in a tray of coffees. Cas cradles the mug in his hands, enjoying the way the ceramic distributes the heat to his skin, and watches them. He sets it on the edge of the table, nodding his thanks when he accepts the biscuit Mary offers him.

 

Cas picks listlessly at the cheese adhered to the wrapper as Sam and Mary start eating. He hears the door to the bathroom open, smells the clean scent of Dean's soap waft out on a cloud of steam, and glances up. Dean is standing across the coffee table from him, frowning.

 

Cas feels his brow furrow. “What?”

 

“You aren't eating.”

 

The celestial lets out a sigh, aware that arguing will do no good. He takes a bite of his biscuit and gives Dean a level glare, silently seeking the hunter's approval. Dean nods and snags two yellow wrapped sandwiches for himself before plopping down on the sofa next to him. Cas continues to put minimal effort into eating his breakfast as he watches Dean devour his own from the corner of this eye. Mary shakes her head at Dean, muttering about table manners, which earns a pout from Dean and a snort of laughter from Sam.

 

Cas is nearly finished with his first sandwich as Dean and Sam both launch into a third. Mary tips fresh coffee from one of the styrofoam cups into Cas's mug and offers it back to him, which he accepts with a pleased smile. He sips happily at the fresh brew for several moments, lost in his own thoughts, before realizing that the three Winchesters are watching him expectantly.

 

The angel takes one last sip, then sets the mug against his knee. “So, let me tell you what I remember.”

 

 

The Winchesters listen quietly as Castiel relates his tale—Dean's eyes tightening, Mary nodding along, and Sam plugging Cas's details into a search algorithm on his laptop. As the angel trails off, Sam scrolls through the results of his meta search, noticing within moments that several links all referenced the same spirit from Japanese mythology. Intrigued, he selects one and reads through the entry before enlarging the associated image and turning the laptop to face Castiel.

 

“Does this look like the woman you saw?”

 

Cas squints at the screen a moment, then his eyes widen in recognition and he nods. “Yes, almost exactly.”

 

Sam turns the laptop back to himself and starts reading the information out loud.

 

“‘ _Yuki-onna_ prey on travelers lost in the heavy snowstorms that blanket the Japanese Alps in winter. They have an otherworldly beauty, with long black hair and piercing eyes, colored deep violet. Their skin is ageless and as white as snow. Their bodies are as cold as ice, and a mere touch is enough to give a human a deep, unshakable chill. She feeds on human life force, sucking it from their mouths into hers with an icy breath that often freezes her victims solid’,” [1] Sam pauses, looking around the eerily silent room.

 

Dean frowns. “We're kinda a long way from the Japanese Alps. How and why would she—it—be in Wyoming?”

 

Mary clears her throat. “I have an idea.” She waits till all three men nod their assent before continuing. “When I was arriving, I came in through Powell, and I saw signs for a Heart Mountain Interpretive Center. I asked the clerk about it when I stopped for gas before meeting you here. Heart Mountain was a Japanese internment camp in WWII. The museum just opened in the last year or so, but many of the original buildings remain on the site.”

 

Sam nods in understanding, seeing a similar expression bloom on his brother’s face.

 

Castiel still looks confused, frowning as he says, “I don't understand.”

 

Sam explains. “After Japan bombed the Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, the United States officially joined WWII. To combat growing fear of infiltrators, the government initiated the internment camps—little more than glorified prisons really—for Japanese families living in the US. There were around a dozen of them scattered throughout the country, most of them in the western half of the nation.”

 

Cas nods. “I see. And as we've seen before, where a people, and their beliefs, settle or congregate....”

 

“So do their monsters,” Dean finishes for him.

 

“Based on what we know about the three vics and Cas's description,I'm fairly comfortable saying we've identified our, uh, spirit,” Sam comments as he continues to browse the links returned by his search. “The lore varies. It’s sometimes referred to as a spirit, sometimes as a demon. Yuki-onna can even appear fully human, take husbands, bear children....” He frowns. “Though that appears to be a modern, er, romantic interpretation. Older lore focuses on the creature being vengeful and manipulative.”

 

“Great,” Dean drawls, “So, how do we gank her?”

 

Sam frowns, tugging a hand through his hair. “I have no idea.”

 

“What?”

 

The youngest Winchester scowls. “The yuki-onna has become a fixture of Japanese pop culture. They appear in films, novels, anime, and video games. It’s gonna take some time to parse the truth from fiction.”

 

Mary, having moved to peer at the laptop over Sam's shoulder, sets a hand on it and points to something on the screen. She bites her lip and shoots a glance between Dean and Cas as Sam reads. Sam sets down the computer and scrubs his hands through his hair.

 

Dean's face grows stormy once more, practically barking, “What? What now?”

 

Sam takes a breath and discloses what Mary just pointed out to him. “Some lore states that once the yuki-onna selects a victim and immediate death _doesn't_ occur, the victim will continue to feel a ‘deep, penetrating chill’ that eventually forces them to seek out the spirit. Then she uh, well, finishes the job.”

 

Sam's eyes drift to Cas huddling on the sofa, wrapped in a stained, ratty motel blanket. Cas flushes under the combined scrutiny of the hunter family. “You're still cold, aren't you, Cas? More than just a chill, like at the bunker?”

 

Cas brow furrows and hesitantly, he nods.

 

Dean surges to his feet and angrily kicks the coffee table, sending coffee sloshing and a biscuit to the floor, and storms out of the room.

 

Cas shrinks, retreating into his blanket, eyes dark and cast to the floor. Sam closes the laptop and tosses napkins at the puddle of coffee before picking up the biscuit and placing it back on the table. He stands and glances between Mary and Castiel. “I'll go talk to Dean.”

 

Sam pushes his feet into his boots and grabs his coat. He shoots a look at the sofa where Cas sits, slumped and miserable, and zips up his parka with excessive force. Without another word, he stalks out into the cold to talk sense into his brother.

 

 

**December 6th**

 

Castiel pulls his gloves on to trembling hands. After Dean's explosive retreat the day before, Cas had quietly asked Mary if he could lay down in her room, to allow the rest of them to research without worrying about disturbing him. She had, of course, agreed wholeheartedly with his suggestion. Cas hasn't seen the brothers or spoken a word to them in the hours since.

 

Words, he tells himself, are empty, useless things, far too often. That’s something he learned the first time he was mortal. People use words to make themselves feel better, to hide the truth, to lie. They can also use them to comfort, to offer sympathy, and to express love, but that has not often been his experience with humanity.

 

In all honesty, this malaise he’s experiencing isn’t completely due to the effects of the yuki-onna.  He knows part of what he is feeling is self-loathing. He has disappointed Dean, by letting his guard down, getting hurt, being useless— _again_. And he himself is disappointed. After Lucifer was expelled, Dean assured him he was important, a part of their family, that he could never be worthless to them, and Castiel, fool that he is, believed him. He always does, even when their history would advise him otherwise. But then again, he's always had too much heart, making the same mistakes over and over again.

 

He hears his phone ping and knows without looking that it is a text from Sam. The younger Winchester has texted him almost precisely every four hours, 'checking in' to assure that Castiel is alright. The first time Castiel had considered his answer nearly ten minutes before finally replying  ‘ _I am tired and cold, but otherwise fine_ .’ In the subsequent texts he has simply answered, ‘ _the same_ ’.

 

Early that morning, Mary had brought him tea and danishes, which he accepted with a softly uttered thanks. He nibbled on the edge of the danish, avoiding the cherry middle—he found it too sweet, too artificial. Mary had prattled around the room telling him that they sent feelers out to hunter connections, asking for ideas, contacts, anything, to help them defeat the yuki-onna. She'd then showered, changed, and given him a sympathetic look before leaving again.

 

Castiel hasn't been completely idle, however. He has his phone, after all. He laid for hours in the dark, thumbing through page after page of tiny print—English, Chinese, Japanese, and Hindu texts. He doesn't need to take physical notes, his still-angelic mind able to retain any and all information. This is good because Dean has assured him more than once that his handwriting is abysmal. Cas had silently taken offense at the comment. He had never had need to write anything beyond wards and sigils, so his skill with a pen was strikingly similar to that of a child. This was logical to him, and hilarious to Dean.

 

Cas realizes with a start that he is trembling, both from cold and surprisingly, anger. He takes a deep breath and mentally chants a prayer for peace of mind, one of his favorites. Despite past events and his loss of faith in his Father, simple meditations still bring him a modicum of solace. It takes several repetitions of the ancient words before Cas feels his body begin to release its tension. He continues in his search for inner peace, letting his mind sink into the rhythm and cadence of the prayer, ignoring the pang of longing deep within his being for the prayers of the faithful that he can no longer hear.

 

Finally, he picks up the mobile phone and looks at the text, feeling a jolt of shock that it is from Dean and not Sam. He opens the message, heart in his throat, then huffs in derision and tosses the phone on the bed. _Peace_ , he tells himself, _be at peace._ He calls the meditation up in his mind once again and concentrates on breathing through his ire.

 

 

Dean stares at his phone long after the screen has gone dark. Five minutes pass, then ten. He shoves the device in his pocket and returns to the diner table where Sam and Mary sit with a woman —early forties, vaguely pretty, and Asian—that their contacts scrounged up for them regarding the Yuki-onna.

 

Hitomi Watanabe-Clarke is a historian associated with the Heart Mountain Interpretive Center. Her grandmother, she informed them, had been interned at Heart Mountain, and taught her the old stories, the myths of her people, and the truth about the things that exist in the gray areas of the world. She isn't a hunter, but she knows what they are, why they are needed, and after a conversation with their buddy Garth, she had agreed to meet them.

 

“Sorry, too much coffee,” Dean offers with a self-deprecating smile as he takes a seat next to his mother. He motions for Hitomi to continue speaking.

 

“You are hunting the Yuki-onna, the snow maiden. That is what Garth told me.” Her dark eyes travel to each of their faces, judging the truth from their expressions. She sighs. “I only moved here two years ago, when we started work on the museum. I wasn't sure I would do it, live in a place where my grandmother, thousands of Japanese, lived in fear, but my grandmother always taught me to learn our stories and to listen to their lessons. I want my work here to, well, make a difference. History is full of lessons if we choose to hear them.”

 

She pauses, either for effect, or to judge the receptiveness of her audience. Seeing three carefully neutral faces staring silently back at her she grimaces and continues.

 

“I know no tale that teaches how to destroy a yokai—a demon spirit—such as the yuki-onna. However, traditionally, Japaneses spirits are considered weak to salt and iron. Just like your average ghosts, right?”

 

The hunters all nod. Hitomi takes a sip from her cup of tea. “So, salt or iron will weaken her, more than likely. But killing her, dispelling her evil spirit, is going to be more difficult. She can call forth the snow and wind. She can freeze you with a breath, kill with a touch. There are sutras—prayers—taught in Buddhism that may exorcise her. I do not know them, but my cousin is a priest at a shrine in San Francisco. He may be able to help.”

 

Dean bites his tongue against vocalizing his disappointment in the information. His hands tighten into fists on his thighs, out of sight of the others. Across from him, Sam nods, giving Hitomi his most endearing smile.

 

“We truly appreciate the information, Hitomi, and if you could get us in touch with your cousin, it would be really helpful.”

 

She takes out her phone and writes a number on a napkin, then slides it to the center of the table. She finishes her drink and stands. “I really must go. My lunch break is long over.”

 

With a clack of heels on the linoleum tile, she is gone.

 

“So a Buddhist priest in Cali is now our only hope for figuring this shit out before this bitch kills Cas,” Dean sneers, tapping the napkin. “Fucking awesome.”

 

“Dean.”

 

“What, Sam?” Dean snaps. “I'm sorry. Is my ‘language’ making you uncomfortable?”

 

“No, I'm just tired of you being an asshole. We're all worried about Cas,” Sam snipes back, nostrils flaring in agitation.

 

“Boys,” Mary chides softly, cutting her eyes to the approaching waitress.

 

Dean shoots the waitress a charming smile, assures her they're good, and sends her on her way with a wink. Sam shakes his head, huffing in disbelief. Dean smirks at him, the tension now broken.

 

“Did Cas answer your text?” Sam asks, somewhat abruptly.

 

Dean blinks, smirk fading. “What text?”

 

“You stepped away to text Cas because you're feeling guilty. I tried to get you to check on him before we left and you were too stubborn to listen, but I know you, Dean.”

 

“You do, huh?”

 

Sam glares at him. “Yes, Dean. You feel like a dick for storming out yesterday. You're worried he might have the wrong impression but you don't know how to bring it up. You don't know how to tell him that you aren't angry, you're scared.”

 

Dean feels a chill as Sam's words strike true. His jaw snaps shut and he looks away, refusing to respond—not knowing _how_ to respond.

 

Mary's palm is light and warm on his arm. “Dean, talk to him when we get back. Promise me.”

 

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, fighting the urge to shake off her touch as well as her concern. He longed all his life for her—for this—but he finds himself chafing under her tender gaze. He lets out a defeated breath and nods. “Yeah, okay.”

 

A few minutes later, Dean stops Sam at the register before he can pay the bill. “Hey, let's bring Cas back a burger.”

 

 

Mary tries not to be too obvious as she lingers by the Impala, watching as Dean knocks at the door to her room and waiting several nerve-wracking moments before Cas grants him entrance. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and joins Sam at the door to the brothers’ room. As it falls closed behind her, Sam gives her a reassuring smile. She can't help but start to smile back as she slips off her coat. He seems to have that effect on her and it makes her ache for the child she didn’t get to see grow up.

 

“Do you think they're going to be okay?” she asks hesitantly, idly straightening the mugs on the counter.

 

Sam snorts. “No idea. I hope so. With those two, you never know. Though...”

 

She looks up. “Though what?”

 

Sam sits down, stretching out his impossibly long legs. “Saying Dean and Cas have history is a gross understatement. They've been through, well, _Hell_ , and more. Sadly, neither of them are good at talking about their feelings or motivations. Dean was raised in John Winchester's school of hard knocks. Cas, I think, feels so conflicted most of time. Things we take for granted, that we understand from lifetimes of social interaction, he's just figuring out, and often it clashes with his, er, angelic point of view.”

 

Sam realizes that Mary is staring pointedly at her shoes and has been since he commented about their father.

 

“Mom, I'm sorry.”

 

Mary looks up, shaking her head. “No, it’s alright. I know—well, I _suspect_ from small comments you both make that John was a very different man after my death. It hurts to hear, to know that he wasn’t the father he could’ve been. But it isn't your fault. You shouldn't apologize for being honest.” Her voice cracks. “And I need to hear the truth. I can't learn about who you and Dean are without knowing how he raised you. It shaped the men you are.”

 

Sam looks at her forlornly but nods. “I get it.”

 

Mary feels a nervous laugh bubble up her throat, and presses her fingers to her burning eyes. “Okay.”

 

She sighs, smooths her hands down the fabric of her jeans and moves to the sofa. “So, you're going to contact Hitomi's cousin and explain the situation. Hopefully Hitomi will give him a heads up and he'll be willing to help.”

 

Sam grunts in agreement. “Yeah, I'll do that in a bit. It is the middle of the afternoon and I'm not sure if the number she gave us is work or personal, y’know?”

 

Mary hums in agreement, watching as Sam opens his laptop and start typing rapidly away. She plays with the corner of the cushion, thoughts of John, of Dean, even Cas, and a thousand other things running through her mind.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Yeah, Mom?

 

“What did you mean? School of hard knocks?”

 

Mary is not imagining the sharp intake of breath that immediately answers her question. She looks up to see Sam looking at her with growing apprehension. Mary hardens her gaze. “I just said I need to know the truth, Samuel. I will never get that from Dean. I've already learned that much.”

 

Sam frowns, his eyes full of pain, and sits up straighter. “Dad was...angry a lot. But he was gone more than he was angry.”

 

“Gone. On hunts?”

 

He nods and Mary's stomach sours.

 

“He left me and Dean alone most of the time. Sometimes we'd get lucky and could stay with Pastor Jim or with Bobby, but as we got older, and Dad got more and more obsessed, his relationships with other hunters soured, so Dean and I took care of ourselves. Well, _Dean_ took care of _me_.

 

“Dean did as best he could. I realize that now. I had a lot of bitterness when I was growing up. I pushed Dean away for bossing me around, but I always called him back because I would remember he was all that was between me and being completely alone if Dad didn't come back.

 

“Dad was a hard task-master. We did drills like soldiers, field stripping weapons, picking locks—you name it. And he had high expectations. If we wanted to survive as hunters, there was no room for mistakes.

 

“As I got older, Dad and I clashed whenever he was around. I didn't want that life. I wanted to go to school, be normal. Dad thought I was abandoning my family. Dean was usually caught in the middle. I would get so angry when he took Dad's side, but I also started to notice how Dean flinched when Dad moved into a room, how he kept a decent distance between them, never leaving his back to Dad when he was drinking. I don’t have proof of violence, Mom, and a part of Dean respected Dad, but he also feared him.”

 

Mary glances away, blinking tears from her eyes as Sam trails off. She takes a tremulous breath and wipes at her eyes. “That's enough for now. Thank you, Sam.”

 

Sam's face is full of empathy when she looks back over, and that nearly starts her tears again.

 

“So, Dean keeps people at arm’s length. He puts his feelings behind a wall and patches the gaps when someone breaks through,” Mary states, glancing at Sam to confirm, which he does by expression alone.

 

Sam nods, mildly impressed. “That's a really good description.”

 

“And Castiel?”

 

Sam snorts outright. “Crashed right through that wall on day one—unintentional, but unrepentant.”

 

Mary laughs, weak and reedy, but genuine. “Good. Dean needs that, I think. Deserves that—someone who won't let him shut himself away.”

 

Sam smiles softly. “Yeah, he does. If only he could figure that out for himself.”

 

 

Castiel opens the door to the room he has effectively commandeered from Mary, blinking in confusion at one Dean Winchester holding a take away container and trying to appear nonchalant. There is a nervous set to his broad shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that belies the casual way he leans into the door frame. Cas cannot help the blossom of warmth in his heart at the sight, which is why he smiles gently at the hunter and allows him in.

 

Dean hands him the styrofoam box, offering him a grin, “Burger and fries. Thought you might be hungry, since you weren't up to joining us.”

 

The angel takes the box and sits with it on the sofa. He isn't very hungry—hasn't been since his run-in with the yuki-onna—but he understands that in his current state food is a boon. And it is a burger, one bought and delivered by Dean. “Thank you.”

 

He opens the container and assesses the contents. The fries have gone soft, steamed inside the container, but the burger itself looks delicious, cheese and sauteed onions oozing out of a toasted sesame bun. Cas makes an appreciative noise and foregoes the fries to dig straight into the burger. Dean hovers, idly pacing the room, but Cas doesn't miss the furtive looks, or the way Dean's shoulders relax as the angel eats.

 

He pauses between swallows and forces Dean to meet his eyes. “Won't you sit? Or are you in a hurry to go?”

 

Dean blinks at him. “Where would I go?”

 

He shrugs, pulling a pickle off his burger and chewing on it thoughtfully before answering. “Somewhere not here? Not with me?”

 

That gives the hunter pause, brow furrowing. “What exactly is that supposed to mean, Cas?”

 

Cas looks around for a something to use for a napkin, finding none, he scowls and wipes his fingers on his sweatpants. “It hasn't escaped my attention that you appear to be angry with me.”

 

Dean looks truly baffled, then guilty, and finally, resigned. He sighs, scrubs a hand over his jaw, which Cas notes is in need of a shave soon, and sits heavy on the opposite end of the couch.

 

“Cas, I'm not...” he starts, pauses, and tries again, “I'm not angry with you.”

 

Cas tilts his head, meeting Dean's eyes as the hunter glances almost shyly over at him. He doesn't respond, waiting for Dean to continue.

 

“I'm angry because you've been hurt—on my watch. I wasn't there and maybe I should've been. I'm angry because I never seem to make the right choice. I assigned the grids for us to search which means I put you in this bitch's path. And this thing—what's happening to you? I can't fix it. Hell, we aren't even sure we can kill her.”

 

Cas carefully sets his take away on the coffee table and shifts so he is facing Dean. He considers what the other man has said, replays the last day and a half in his mind overlaid with the new information. He nods slowly, starting to comprehend, though for the life of him he sometimes wonders if he will ever really understand the man across from him.

 

“So, you're saying your frustration is with the situation, and not with me.”

 

“Yes!” Dean replies with exasperation. Cas narrows his eyes, shooting Dean a cross look that results in Dean looking chagrined and glancing quickly to the floor.

 

“I forgive you then.”

 

That certainly makes Dean's head snap back up looking back at Cas with growing incredulity. “Wait, what? Forgive me?”

 

Cas nods. “Yes. For being what I believe Sam would call 'an asshole'. I am not good at interpreting your moods. Your—” he pauses, searching for the correct word. “Your deflections confuse me. I've spent the last day believing you were once again disappointed in me. I cannot read your mind Dean, nor would I, if I could. I promised you years ago that I would not violate your trust in that way and I meant that. I am not what I once was, yes, but nor am I human, Dean. No matter that my Grace is weakened, that I eat and sleep as a mortal for now—my being, my mind is not human. Your ways of thought, of emotion, are a language I am still only beginning to learn. I don't 'speak Winchester'.”

 

Dean absorbs this with reasonable aplomb before gracing the angel with a genuine smile, green eyes shining. “Speak Winchester? I'm sensing quotation marks there, Cas.”

 

He nods, a smile tugging at his lips as well. “Yes, I assumed they were implied this time.”

 

“Did you—is that a joke?” Dean guffaws.

 

Cas just smirks coyly and brings his lunch back to his lap. He and Dean sit in silence as he finishes eating the burger, only idly chewing on a few floppy fries before his nose curls with displeasure and he puts the box aside once more. He is aware of Dean watching him in the periphery of his vision, the hunter fiddling absently with the silver band on his right hand. He stands and fills a glass from the sink, draining it twice, before turning back to his friend.

 

“So, the woman you met with couldn't tell you how to defeat the yuki-onna?”

 

Dean lets out a sound between a huff and a groan and leans back into the sofa. He again runs his hand along his jaw, Cas's sharp blue eyes drawn once more to the motion. He wonders how that stubble would feel under his hand—as coarse as his own? Softer? He shakes himself from those thoughts, silently hoping the heat he feels in his face isn't outwardly apparent, and listens for Dean's answer.

 

“Nope, not at all. She gave us a number for her cousin, some kind of priest in San Fran. She thinks he'll be more knowledgeable. Sam is following up on that,” Dean says at last, frustration coloring his voice.

 

“I've been remiss.”

 

Dean turns his head towards Cas, confusion evident. “Huh?”

 

“Earlier you said your decisions put me in the path of the yuki-onna. You blame yourself for her attacking me. But Dean, it isn't your fault. Yes, you decided our search grids, but locating the creature killing innocent men and identifying it was the entire purpose of the search. We accomplished that goal. It’s unfortunate that she attacked, that I was vulnerable to it, but it could have happened to any one of us.”

 

He pauses, head tilting thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps not your mother, as most of the lore indicates the yuki-onna attacks only men. Then again, this could simply be because historically women didn't travel unaccompanied or in such inclement conditions.”

 

Dean snorts. “I like it when you talk all smart, Cas.”

 

Cas frowns. “I am always smart. As I was saying, this could be seen as fortuitous. It’s likely that had she attacked you or Sam, you would've succumbed to her powers. My _unique_ state of being has allowed me to survive. I’m aware the lore indicates that sometimes men survived the initial encounter, but this wasn't the norm. The victims here have all died instantly. I'm glad I’m the one who was attacked.”

 

“Cas,” Dean sighs. He rouses himself from the sofa and approaches the angel, a hand reaching out to grip his bicep. He squeezes the flesh gently and Castiel knows the hunter surely cannot miss how that touch affects him. He lets his gaze fall away, unable to look into that welcome verdant gaze in this moment.

 

“Cas, you can't tell me everything is okay. You're still unusually tired. You have what, three layers of clothes on? You've been camping out in every blanket you can find. Not to mention, it's a sauna in here, man. I'm burning up. She _is_ affecting you, so I'm going to worry. Until we gank her or find a way to break whatever hold she has on you that’s causing this, I'm going to worry. Don't make light of....”

 

The hunter trails off, words leaving him.

 

Cas takes a steadying breath and forces himself to look at Dean. “Don't make light of what, Dean?”

 

Dean licks his lips, eyes focused intently on Castiel's. “Don't make light of how important you are to me.”

 

 

“Yes. That would be great, Mr. Tanaka. Thank you,” Sam replies appreciatively, then ends the call.

 

Hitomi's cousin, after having the situation explained to him, had been willing to assist their hunt. Ryusei Tanaka was a journeyman priest at a shrine in San Francisco's Japantown. He had been raised on the same myths and stories as Hitomi and, as a priest, was intimately familiar with the darker creatures that inhabited the earth. He and Sam had spoken at length about their case. Tanaka had reservations regarding defeating the yuki-onna, but in order to preserve life, was eager to offer any aid he could.

 

Sadly, there was no way he could neglect his duties at his shrine but he had offered to confer with his seniors and call back as soon as he could. Honestly, it was all Sam could have asked, even if it still left him feeling like they were grasping the short end of the stick here. Cas's condition hadn't changed as far as Sam knew. The angel had proven impressively tight lipped in their text exchanges. Perhaps is was due time for him to check up on him in person.

 

Sam had to admit, he was intrigued that Dean had not yet returned from taking Castiel lunch. It was nearing four-thirty in the afternoon now. Either they'd maimed or murdered one another—which Sam doubted solely on the lack of audible destruction—or they were actually getting along, maybe even talking about things like rational adults. He’s somewhat reluctant to accept this option, however hopeful he is of its verity.

 

Slipping his mobile in his pocket, he stands and glances towards the beds where Mary is propped against one of the headboards with his laptop. Whatever task she had set herself on is moot at this point, as she is obviously taking advantage of the down time to nap. First rule of hunting: sleep when you can sleep. Sam smirks fondly and quietly exits the room, careful to guide the door shut with a soft click so as to not disturb his mother.

 

He strides the meager sixty or seventy feet of concrete walkway between their assigned rooms hastily. It’s still horribly cold, despite the abated snow and emerging sun. Even without the unusual snowfall, December in Wyoming can hardly be considered warm. He knocks firmly at the door and waits. Several moments pass without answer. Frowning, he knocks again, louder this time. Now he can faintly hear movement, perhaps even a murmur of conversation.

 

Dean opens the door looking sleep-mussed.

 

Sam grins. “Taking a nap?”

 

Dean gives him a dark look. “It’s like eighty degrees in here man. And I had a heavy lunch.”

 

The younger Winchester peeks over his brother's shoulder to find an equally sleepy looking Cas peering over the back of the sofa at the door. Sam barely swallows a laugh, hazel eyes glinting with mirth as he grins at Dean. “Were you cuddling?”

 

“We were sleeping.”

 

“You were sleeping….together?”

 

“Shut up,” Dean growls, “Or I'll shut this door in your face.”

 

That _does_ force a laugh from Sam. “Am I seriously the only one working the case right now?”

 

From behind Dean comes a gravelly, and impressively sassy, retort. “I was not aware making a phone call was a group activity.”

 

Sam sees Dean's face light up with delight at the snark coming from their resident angel.

 

“Sam, either come in or go away,” Castiel continues, as he repositions a pillow. “The two of you are letting all the warm air out.”

 

Dean chuckles. “The angel has spoken, Sammy. Coming in?”

 

Sam nods and enters the room. He eyes Castiel's nest of blankets on the couch, the lack of indent on the bed, and his brother's rumpled clothing. He waggles his brows at this brother and this time Dean actually flushes and looks away. Sam barely contains the instinct to launch into filial teasing, judging it best to proceed when a half-fallen angel isn't glaring grumpily at him with gravity defying bed head.

 

“I just got off the phone with Hitomi's cousin. She called ahead and explained that we weren't nut jobs or your run-of-the-mill paranormal freaks. He was interested in how we decided it was in fact a yuki-onna. Once I explained the cause of death for the three victims, and the attack on Castiel, he was more than willing to help.”

 

Dean brightens, expression eager. “So we have a way to kill her?”

 

Sam grimaces. “Er, no. Not yet, anyway.”

 

Dean glares and Sam extends a placating hand before his brother can start verbally grilling him for information. “Look, this spirit is rare. Even more rare on foreign soil. Lore doesn't have any answers on how to destroy her. Mr. Tanaka, Hitomi’s cousin, thinks the temple elders may be able to offer advice, and he's also going to check the library they have on site and call me back. Though, he did make sure to preface that second offer with the fact they are a small temple with a limited collection of arcana.”

 

Cas nods. “It’s still kind of him to help. He has no obligation to us or the people here.”

 

“Yeah, that's how I feel, too,” Sam replies. Dean, he notes, continues to looks displeased as he finally returns to the sofa, but keeps his thoughts to himself. Sam watches as his brother makes himself comfortable, left hand falling to rest on Castiel's blanket-covered calf. Dean notices Sam's attention and challenges him with a glare. Sam subtly shakes his head. He's not saying a word, more than pleased at the easy comfort that seems to have returned to the pair.

 

Sam motions towards them. “Cas, I know you just ate a couple hours ago, but it's nearing five o'clock. I'm tired of choosing between the one decent diner in Cody and the McDonalds. I thought we could drive up to Powell for dinner, explore new options.”

 

“Oh, a Burger King maybe?” Dean interrupts with a scoff.

 

Sam shoots him a sour look. “No idea what we'll find. Honestly, I don't care. A change of scenery would be nice at this point. Do you feel up to joining us, Cas?”

 

Cas chews his lip, considering. “You’re right that I’m not hungry, but perhaps getting out of my _self-imposed exile_ would be nice.”

 

Dean offers Cas a small, pleased smile, as well as a squeeze to his ankle. Sam swears he sees Cas puff up with pleasure at the gesture. He refrains from comment, glancing away to give them a modicum of privacy as the two proceed to do that soulful eye _thing_ they do with each other. After several quiet—and increasingly awkward for Sam—moments, Sam loudly clears his throat and stands.

 

“Okay, I'll go wake Mom. When you're dressed and ready, come meet us and we'll go.”

 

Dean and Cas both nod and Sam lets himself out. He can't help the wide grin plastered on his face as he leaves, his inner romantic replaying the gentle touches and lingering looks, delighting in the fact that Dean and Cas had obviously been nestled cozily on the couch together before his arrival woke them. He starts to feel hopeful this case will end with more than just the evil creature getting its due—that maybe something good is actually dawning for his brother and their wayward angel.

 

 

After a quiet drive up highway fourteen, they settle at a table in an older diner right off Coulter in central Powell. The diner is a bit aged, but the tables and counters are clean and there’s a promising number of locals filling the booths and tables for a Thursday evening. The fare is of the expected diner variety—Sam opts for a salad, Cas for a cup of the soup of the day, and for Mary and Dean, an open-faced turkey sandwich and a chicken finger basket, respectively.

 

Mary glances around their table once the waitress takes their orders. Sam sits next to her, absorbed in something in his phone. Cas is wane under normally tanned skin, blinking tiredly at the cheesy jokes and puzzles printed on the paper placemats while Dean fidgets with a sugar packet. As they wait for their food, Mary watches him flip the packet between his fingers, spin it on it's side, then pick it up and tap it on the table. Her brow furrows, mouth falling open to start a conversation, ask a question—anything to stop the nervous little movements.

 

She blinks in surprise as Cas takes the matter into his own hand, literally. The angel gently pulls the packet from Dean, running his own digits soothingly along her son's hand before twining their fingers together. Dean pauses, eyes widening briefly, his gaze darting to hers across the Formica. Mary holds her breath, internally panicking, before giving him a small smile. Dean visibly relaxes at her lack of judgment, squeezing Cas's hand and sinking back against his seat.

 

There is the tap of a foot against her own under the table. Mary cuts her gaze to her right, where Sam is grinning behind his phone. He winks conspiratorially and finally sets his mobile face down on the table and reaches for his glass of water. He drains half the glass before setting it back down with a clink of ice.

 

“So,” he says, “It's nice to get out of the motel, huh?”

 

Dean and Cas both look at him with open confusion and Mary cannot contain herself. She bursts into a fit of giggles. Three sets of eyes turn to her in confusion, which only fuels her sudden and irrational mirth.

 

She wipes at her eyes. “I'm sorry. I don't know why that was funny....” She takes a breath and starts again. “Just—why does this feel so awkward, family sitting down to dinner?”

 

Cas tilts his head, pink lips opening to reply.

 

Dean stops him with a quick shake of his head. “Cas, it's a rhetorical question, just don't.”

 

The angel's jaw snaps shut and he mock-glares at the hunter.

 

Sam snorts, bringing a hand up to hide his grin.

 

Mary's humor drains away, suddenly feeling she's missed something. Sam notices her change in demeanor and moves to explain. “No—hey—Mom, it's okay. Just—Cas more than likely would've answered literally. Something like 'perhaps it is awkward because we still are not well acquainted'. which isn’t untrue—don't give me that look, Cas—but wouldn't make dinner any less awkward.”

 

Cas frowns. “That wasn't my intention.”

 

Dean squeezes his hand. “We know, babe. It's all cool.”

 

Mary's head jerks up, staring into eyes as green as her own.

 

Next to Dean, the angel in question shifts his preternatural blue gaze from their entwined hands to stare openly in surprise at Dean's suddenly tense, yet chiseled profile.

 

Dean's eyes dart between all of them, a fierce scowl daring any of them to disparage his unexpected use of the endearment. Mary isn't sure what exactly Cas sees in the set of Dean's jaw, but the angel's perplexed expression shifts into something warm and affectionate, and he lets out a soft, contented sigh. Next to her, Sam is grinning like it's Christmas morning and Mary finally admits to herself that life is too damn short, so she should just embrace it.

 

“So, when we get back to the motel, I'll grab the last of my things from Cas's room and take them to the double,” Mary says conversationally.

 

“Sounds good to me,” Sam smirks. “I get to bunk with Mom. Awesome.”

 

Dean blinks, mentally trying to catch up with what's happening. “Wait, why?”

 

Mary gives her eldest a benevolent smile. “Well, Cas has all but claimed the single. And you'll want some privacy with your _babe_ , won't you?”

 

She silently delights as Dean's face goes crimson, highlighting the splash of freckles across his cheeks. He stutters out a startled 'Mom', but is interrupted by Cas replying demurely, “That's kind of you, Mary. Thank you.”

 

Dean turns to Cas, practically squawking, “What?”

 

Cas graces the hunter with a look that is somewhere between _look at this adorable idiot_ and _if you persist in this stupidity I will smite you_. It’s honestly an expression Mary finds equal parts amusing and disconcerting. The angel inclines his head towards her as he answers, “Your mother is showing acceptance of your...affections, by offering us a room in which to be alone.”

 

Dean's blush deepens even further and Sam makes a strangled noise as he struggles to contain his laughter. Mary thinks for a moment, _how is this my life?_ But glancing at Sam's teary eyes, dancing with mirth, Dean's affected discomfort, and Castiel's serene acceptance, she feels new warmth bloom in her heart. Despite the events that led them here, Dean is right—this is her family. Her sons may have grown up without her but that doesn't mean they have to grow _old_ without her. They could make this work—hunting, living, loving—together.

 

Mary let's this realization wash over her as the waitress appears with their food. She waits until the server is gone before grinning happily. “Dean mentioned off hand recently you had thoughts of planning a greenhouse at the bunker. Is that right, Cas?”

 

No one at the table missed the use of the affectionate diminutive, Mary having always referred to the angel formally by his full name.

 

Cas nods, finally removing his hand from Dean's to take up his spoon and stir his cup of soup. “Yes, that’s something I am interested in. Why?”

 

“My mother kept an herb garden. I remember laying out in the grass of our back yard in the summers and smelling the scent of rosemary, mint, and thyme on the warm air. It’s a happy memory. I think a greenhouse would be nice. I'd like to help you with the planting, if you'll have me?”

 

Cas's blue eyes alight on Mary, the angel's expression so innocently pleased and full of hope it almost breaks her heart. Before her is a creature beyond her wildest imaginings, who is looking at her as if her offer to pot plants is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him. It's mind boggling and humbling, and her smile widens. “Well?”

 

Cas nods. “Yes, I'd like that very much.”

 

It's left unspoken as they turn to their meals that this means Mary has decided she will be returning to the bunker, _coming_ _home_ , when this is over.

 

 

It's clear to Dean half way through their meal that despite the happy revelations of the evening, Cas is struggling with his fatigue and discomfort—not that the angel speaks a word of complaint, but Dean can see it in the droop of his shoulders and the slow blink of his eyelids as they order pie to go and pay their bill. Dean presses a hand to Cas's lower back as they exit the diner, already tugging the keys to Baby from his pocket.

 

He tosses the keys to Sam. “You and Mom fight over it. I'm gonna sit in the back with Cas.”

 

Mary deftly snatches the keys before Sam can even process Dean voluntarily abstaining from the driver's seat.

 

“What?” she calls over her shoulder at her youngest's baffled expression. “It's been way too long since I had my way with this sweet girl.”

 

Dean snorts as he helps Cas into the backseat, sliding in next to him and pulling the angel against his side, arm around his shoulders. Cas burrows into his warmth and murmurs against his neck, “You are your mother's son.”

 

Dean considers this, grinning. “I guess I am.”

 

Admittedly, Dean is a horrible back seat driver. He's sure Sam would say it's because he’s a bit of a control freak, the little bitch. So in order to maintain the sense of peace that has settled around their little family, Dean keeps his gaze firmly off the road, and naturally his eyes fall to the angel tucked into his side.

 

Cas's eyes are closed, though Dean knows he isn't sleeping but rather drifting comfortably to the sound of the tires rumbling on the asphalt and the soft murmurs of conversation from the front seat. A smile finds its way to Dean's face, stretching the skin and crinkling his eyes. He's pretty sure if someone glanced back at him at this moment, they'd think he'd finally cracked, and he really he doesn't give a shit.

 

Sam's phone chimes, pulling Dean's attention away from Cas. He watches as Sam reads the message and types a response, then turns slightly towards the backseat before speaking.

 

“That was the priest. He’s still working on some things for us. He said he'd call in the morning.” Sam shrugs. “I told him I was free whenever was best for him and thanked him again.”

 

As if talk of their case awakened a response from the dozing angel, Cas stirs and lets out a soft pained gasp. Dean tightens his grip on his shoulders, left hand coming up to brush dark hair from his temple. “Cas?”

 

Simultaneously, a strong wind buffets the car, though Mary keeps her firmly in the lines.

 

Sam meets Dean's concerned gaze. “He okay?”

 

Dean licks his lips. “I think? Cas, babe?”

 

Cas shudders, eyes opening slowly, as if with great effort. “I'm getting colder.”

 

Mary reaches over and cranks the heater to max, regardless of the already humid heat, condensation building up on the interior windows. Powder is blowing across the road now, the wind increasing. The hairs on Dean's arms are standing on end as he tears his eyes from Cas to search the white expanse of land on either side of the highway.

 

They’re behind a semi, slowed nearly to a stop as it turns into an industrial park, when Dean sees her. She’s white robed, white skinned, and her eyes are the color of amethysts, glinting like faceted jewels, piercing even with thirty yards and a fogged pane of glass between them. Cas groans and shakes, fingers digging into the meat of Dean’s thigh painfully. Though he doesn’t see the yuki-onna’s mouth move, a wail rises in the air.

 

“Mom,” Dean cries out past the fear tightening his throat, “You need to drive faster!”

 

“What?” Mary asks, her voice sharply edged by Dean's alarm.

 

“He's right,” Sam interjects. “I see her, too, Dean. The yuki-onna, she's looking for Cas. Mom, we need to go!”

 

Dean gets pushed back into his seat as Mary floors the accelerator. He mentally crosses his fingers that they don't come across any patrol cars, as they are easily pushing ninety within moments. Mary passes slower traffic, earning a blaring of horns, but the Winchester matriarch just tightens her grip on the steering wheel and keeps the Impala sailing down the highway.

 

After several minutes, Dean can feel Cas begin to relax, sagging against him as if he has no strength left after that brief encounter. He pushes his hand against Cas's face, frowning at how chilled and clammy his skin is. Dean grits his teeth as they are forced to obey the speed limit through the town of Ralston, fear and anger souring his stomach. Once past the town limits, Mary speeds up again, though with more care this time. Within twenty minutes, they’re at the motel and Dean is half carrying a wobbling Cas to what is now their room, the angel leaning weakly into him as they walk.

 

Sam takes the key card from Dean's shaking hand, unlocking and pushing open the door for him and Cas to stumble through. Dean leads them straight to the bed. He tugs at Cas's coat, eliciting a mewl of objection from the angel.

 

“Hey, no, this is coming off, Cas,” Dean asserts sternly. “I'll get you blankets, but you aren't sleeping in your coat.”

 

Protest seeps from Cas, but Dean is able to remove his coat and boots, then eases him down onto the mattress. Sam hands him the blankets from the couch, which he tucks securely around Cas's shivering body. He is distantly aware of Mary announcing she's going to grab the other extras from the room down the corridor. Dean paces at the bedside, scrubbing a hand across his jaw and into his hair, tugging the strands harshly.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean's head snaps up to see Sam giving him a sympathetic look, hazel eyes seeming overly large in his narrow face.

 

“S-am,” Dean starts and stops, voice failing him. He comes to a halt, clenches his eyes shut, and counts to ten.

 

“She's going to keep looking for him until we kill her or she....”

 

Sam's face hardens. “We aren't going to let her take Cas. I promise you, Dean.”

 

Dean nods, words stuck in his throat. He sits heavily on the side of the bed and reaches for Cas, resting his hand on the curve of his hip under the mound of blankets.

 

 

For the second time in as many days, Cas wakes shivering and confused with no knowledge of how he came to be there. He stretches under the covers, feeling them tug against his clothing. At least he is dressed this time, he thinks dispassionately. There is a rustling of bed sheets, a sleepy murmur, and then Cas realizes he is not alone in the bed. He pushes the covers away from his head and peers at his bed mate in the darkness.

 

Dean's face is softer in sleep than it can ever be when he is awake. There is always tension in his shoulders, a tightness in the line of his jaw, that only fades under Morpheus' call. Ever since Dean became his charge, he has enjoyed watching him sleep, watching as dreams eased his pain, took the edge off his guilt and his fury. As an angel, he did not understand how vulnerable one was in sleep, how unguarded. He understands now—now that he has known sleep, known pain, and fear, and so many other terrifying and beautiful things.

 

He now knows why Dean disliked Castiel watching him sleep. It’s the fear of being seen exposed as what you are and not what you fight to be in your waking hours. He wonders if that has changed, if this is something he is now allowed, or if Dean would still call it _creepy_. His fingers tingle with the urge to caress that beloved jaw, feel the stubble pull against the pads of his fingers. The very thought of such a simple yet intimate act has his pulse increasing, his mouth dry with want.

 

Cas rolls away from Dean's visage and stares at the ceiling. His eyes trace the cracks and water stains in the feeble light leaking between the curtains as he waits for sleep to claim him again, but sleep does not call and, reluctantly, he drags his body from the bed to relieve himself and change into something more suited for sleeping. Denim just isn't that comfortable, no matter that the Winchesters practically live in theirs regularly.

 

Cas empties his bladder and washes his hands without turning on the lights. He then pads back into the motel room proper and quietly searches through his belongings for a clean pair of sweats and a new t-shirt, growling softly in frustration when he locates one but not the other. He settles for the shirt and a clean pair of boxer-briefs. James— _Jimmy_ —preferred boxers. Castiel doesn't like them, how they bunch under his jeans. It was one of the first choices he made after returning to the bunker after Lucifer—boxer-briefs instead of boxers, strawberry jam over grape jelly, Keats rather than Pope.

 

A fond smile finds its way to Cas’s face at that last thought. He had always enjoyed human poetry. Sam encouraged him to explore the small literary library within the bunker, taught him to browse the mildewed books left in thrift stores, even discussed prose and rhythm with him. The younger Winchester was patient with Castiel's questions and never ridiculed his ignorance or his growing interest in Romantic poetry.

 

His eyes are drawn back to the bed where Dean still sleeps. Dean prefers briefs, he hates jams and jellies, and wouldn't be caught with Romantic poetry—he prefers Satirist novels. Dean had simply chuckled and shaken his head as Castiel and Sam discussed whether _Lamia_ or _La Belle Dame sans Merci_ were Keats' best works. He'd fondly called them “his nerds” and ended the conversation by making popcorn and insisting they watch _The Force Awakens._

 

Feeling the acute bite of the cold seeping back into his flesh, Castiel divests himself of his clothes and pulls on the tee and the fresh underwear. He rubs his arms as gooseflesh pimples his skin and debates stealing a blanket and laying on the sofa over returning to the warmth of the bed. He chews his lip, caught in his indecision until a full body shudder convinces him that the bed is certainly the more intelligent choice. He will just have to be careful not to wake Dean, which he thinks would probably be considered rude.

 

He carefully peels back the bedding and crawls into the heated space. He sighs as warmth returns to his limbs, and then Dean stirs.

 

“What took you so long?” Dean mumbles. He pulls Cas closer and shudders. “Jesus, Cas, you're friggin' freezing again.”

 

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”

 

Dean huffs. “Heard you pissing.”

 

Cas cannot help the laugh that bubbles up in response. He looks over and Dean is smiling too, eyes bright, even in the gloom. Cas's heart stutters in his chest.

 

“Dean....”

 

He isn't sure what Dean hears in his voice but something changes in the hunter's face, his gaze darkening. Cas licks his lips and trembles when Dean's eyes follow the movement of his tongue. That sense of want is back, growing as Dean shifts the blankets and pulls Cas flush against him. Cas gasps at the searing heat of Dean's skin as his hands cradle Cas's head.

 

Before Castiel's mind can catch up to what's happening, Dean's mouth is on his. Dean's lips ply his own open, his tongue chasing Cas's ragged breaths. Cas moans and leans into the kiss, all his senses focused on Dean—the way he tastes, the sound of his breath, the heat of his skin, the press of his hips. It's overwhelming, simultaneously too much and not enough—never enough—all at once.

 

Cas bites back a groan as Dean pulls away, trailing kisses along the bolt of his jaw, before pressing his brow to the angel's.

 

“God, Cas,” Dean breathes shakily. “This is—I can't. I won’t do this.”

 

Cas's stomach twists, an icy cold unrelated to the air beyond their nest of blankets spearing his heart. He squeezes his eyes shut and twists away from Dean's hands. Logically, he knows he’s overly tired, mentally and physically drained by the unnatural malaise induced by the yuki-onna, yet his mind reels with confusion at what he interprets as rejection. Did he miss something? Did he misconstrue Dean's affections? The hand-holding?

 

Dean reaches for Cas again, brow furrowing with concern. “Cas?”

 

Eyes burning with tears, Cas jerks his arm away from the hunter’s touch and scoots to the edge of the edge of the mattress. Dean follows him, hand sliding over Cas’s hip, hot and heavy on his abdomen. “Hey, come back.”

 

“Give me a moment Dean,” Cas replies, voice edged with hurt. Dean tugs on his hip again, insistent. Cas growls low in his throat and snaps his elbow back, catching Dean in the chest.

 

“Ow, what the hell?!”

 

“Let go.”

 

Dean lets out a snarl of frustration and grips Cas's arm as the angel aims another vicious elbow jab at his sternum. Dean uses Cas’s surprise to tug him to the center of the bed, rolling him to his back and moving to sit atop the thrashing celestial.

 

“What the _fuck_ is going on Cas?”

 

“You changed your mind. You don't want this—me. You said...” Cas cries, bucking under Dean’s weight.

 

“Jesus, stop it. Cas—stop moving!” Dean snaps. He shifts forward, pinning Castiel's arms to the bed above his head.

 

“I was trying to say this is important— _too_ important to me, Cas!”

 

Cas blinks up at the hunter with confusion. “What does that mean?”

 

“It means I’m out of my depth here too, not just you, okay? I've never had sex with a guy, Cas. I'm not gonna fumble through it in this shitty motel with no supplies,” Dean replies angrily.

 

All the fight rushes out of Cas and he goes still, chest still heaving with exertion as he gazes uncertainly up at Dean's flushed face, “You want to have sex with me?”

 

Dean's anger falters, quickly being superseded by embarrassed confusion. “Not, like _tonight_. Damn, Cas. But yes, I do, eventually. It’s what, you know, people do. I mean, I’ve thought about it—some.”

 

“You have?”

 

“Uh, yeah, I have. Is that really so strange?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Dean looks so offended by Castiel's answer it is almost comical. He tightens his grip on Cas's wrists, as if he can squeeze the answer he wants from him with pure force. “What? Why?”

 

“I—I don't know? Perhaps, because you have an ingrained need to maintain the appearance of heteronormativity that is, frankly, maddening?”

 

Dean jerks upright, releasing Cas's arms as if burned, but doesn't move from his perch on angel's abdomen. He scrubs his hands over his face, gusting out a long, drawn, exasperated breath, before letting his arms fall limply in his lap. He gazes down at the angel with a look of longing and frustration — expression blessedly free of anger at least. “Okay. You’re not...wrong. Cas, babe, you gotta help me here. We're getting our wires crossed or something.”

 

Cas's brows furrow. “I don't understand that ref—you’re ‘speaking Winchester’ again.”

 

Dean bursts into helpless laughter. He leans down and kisses Cas's brow. “God knows you drive me crazy, Cas, but I never, _ever_ , want you to change.”

 

Castiel pouts up at the hunter, still feeling wrong-footed. “I hope you plan on elaborating.”

 

 

**December 7th**

 

_Rough night. Let us sleep._

 

Sam blinks at the message, checking the time it was received—4:14 am.

 

It’s now shortly before eight in the morning. He looks at Mary as she emerges from the bathroom. “Just you and me for breakfast. Dean and Cas are sleeping in.”

 

She looks surprised. “Sleeping in on a case?”

 

Sam shakes his head. “This isn't a case anymore. Hasn't been since this thing went after Cas. This is too personal.”

 

Mary grimaces. “I realize that. I meant, I would expect Dean to, well, keep pounding the pavement, as my father would say. You know what I’m saying.”

 

Sam snorts. “To be gnashing at the bit? Raring to go?”

 

“Yeah, that.”

 

He holds up the phone. “He texted around 4 am, said he and Cas were gonna try to sleep in. I just hope that doesn't mean Cas is worsening.”

 

His mother gives him an empathetic look. “Doesn't sound good though. We'll bring back something for them to eat later. Cas only had that little cup of soup last night. He should be starving by the time he wakes up.”

 

Sam smirks at Mary’s maternal instinct making an appearance. “That sounds like a plan. Let's just grab something nearby. I want to be here when Mr. Tanaka calls so we have some privacy.”

 

Mary hesitates, her hand hovering over the keys to the Impala. Her mouth twists into a frustrated frown and she grabs the keys to her Trans Am instead. She looks up at Sam, twirling the keys in her hand. “Agreed. Come on, I'm hungry.”

 

An hour later, they return with two boxes of donuts and a to-go carafe of coffee. Dean emerges from the room down the corridor as they park. He looks a bit tired but he greets them both with a slap on the back, following them into their room. Sam hands him a box and Dean grins. “Oh, come to Papa.”

 

“You're an idiot, Dean,” Sam guffaws.

 

Dean shoves a whole donut in his mouth and grins, mouth smeared with powdered sugar.

 

“Ew, dude. Why are you so gross?” Sam laughs and shakes his head. He turns away and winks at Mary, who looks equally appalled by Dean and his questionable eating habits. His brother chuckles and happily continues to chomp on his confection before licking the sugar from his fingers. He even goes as far to slurp his coffee loudly just to see Sam cringe.

 

Dean swallows and moves on from his moment of fun. “Have we heard from our priest?”

 

Sam checks his phone to make sure he hasn't somehow missed the much anticipated call. “No. He didn't specify a time, but hopefully soon.” Changing topics, he catches his brother's eye. “So, rough night?”

 

Dean splutters his coffee, hissing as the warm beverage splashes his shirt. He gives a warning growl, which does nothing but ensure Sam's continued interest.

 

“Is Cas okay?” Sam presses.

 

His brother nods. “Yeah. Well, I guess so. He had trouble sleeping last night.”

 

Mary looks over. “He has bouts of insomnia, doesn't he? Since his need for sleep is more or less sporadic? I remember him wandering the bunker a few times before I, uh, left.”

 

Dean grimaces, not looking at either Sam or Mary. “Yeah, that’s, uh, that's true. Look, we both ended up awake. And some topics had to be discussed because—well, because they did.”

 

Sam gives his brother an incredulous look. “Really?”

 

“Yes, Sam.”

 

The youngest Winchester rolls his eyes, glancing at his mother. Mary shakes her head, silently advising him to let it go. Continuing the conversation becomes a moot point, however, as Sam’s mobile rings. Sam quickly snags it from the table and accepts the request, he is surprised to see, for a video call. “Mr. Tanaka. Good morning.”

 

Ryusei Tanaka inclines his head respectfully on the small screen. “Mr. Winchester.”

 

“Please, just ‘Sam’.”

 

“Sam. I discussed the information you gave me with one of our elders. He was once a native of Hokkaido, one of the northern islands of Japan. It’s more remote in many places than the main island, Honshu. It gets very cold there in winter, and snows often. Many legends of supernatural creatures living in the snow or existing in the mountain passes come from there. He lived there most of his life before coming to America to be closer to his grand children. He—” Tanaka pauses. “He has heard stories of the yuki-onna, though of course, has never known anyone who has encountered one.

 

“He says the old legends tell the yuki-onna is the spirit of a woman wronged in death, but with these things, how can we be sure? We researched through the night. What I have to offer you are suggestions at best, theories at worst.”

 

Sam frowns. “That isn't comforting.” He cuts his eyes to Dean, gauging how well his brother is taking the ambiguity of Tanaka’s statement. Dean’s face is dark with frustration, but Sam is satisfied he’s keeping himself in check.

 

Tanaka sighs. “I am aware. Salt, as I am sure you know, is a purifier. It should weaken the spirit. Perhaps contain her though...”

 

“Considering we'll have to confront her in the snow and she can control the wind, yeah, doesn't sound promising.”

 

“You speak correctly, and wisely, Sam. I have been given permission to teach you the Kuji-in [2] by my elders. This is a powerful mantra to repel evil. Sometimes it is called the kuji-kiri or the nine cuts. To those who believe in spirit magic, it can be a powerful tool.”

 

The priest licks his lips, eyes full of uncertainty. “I cannot promise this will work. I also cannot promise that you will be able to master it quickly enough to save your friend, but I will do my best to teach you well.”

 

Dean growls, temper flaring. “This is bullshit.”

 

Sam tilts the phone towards his belly. “Dean, stop. It's all we have.”

 

“Sam, come on. Some magic words and hand signs are gonna kill this bitch? Really?”

 

Mary frowns. “How do you know its words and hand signs?”

 

Dean flushes. “I watch anime.”

 

Sam barely withstands the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to Dean to show he’s smarter than he likes to portray himself as thanks to _anime_ , of all things. He turns his attention back to his mobile. “I apologize for my brother. He is, er, close to our friend. He— _we_ all feel powerless here. Please, I'm eager to learn.”

 

Sam is only peripherally aware of Mary pulling Dean aside and speaking to him firmly. His attention focused on his call.

 

“I understand his reservations. I do not take offense. I will walk you through the pronunciations to be sure you understand them, then I will send you a video of the hand gestures. It is important that both the verbal and somatic elements of the kuji-in be performed correctly, or it is powerless.”

 

Sam nods in grim determination. “I understand.”

 

 

After ending the call with Tanaka, the Winchesters hash out their plan of attack. They agree Sam will be the one focusing on learning the kuji-in after Dean struggles with the hand movements, or mudras, and Mary stumbled over the unfamiliar, foreign words. Dean and Mary quickly decide they’re best suited to providing cover; keeping the yuki-onna away from both Cas and Sam. Once they’ve agreed, Sam retreats to a corner with his laptop and his head phones. He spends hours reviewing and practicing the motions, fingers cramping from overuse. The two other Winchesters hover about the room looking for useful tasks. In the hours since Tanaka called, they've inventoried their supplies, discussed locations to spring their trap, and finally, gone in search of lunch.

 

Mary chews her lip as she finishes loading the last of their empty shotgun shells with salt. She sighs and rolls her shoulders, her muscles aching from the long, repetitive use. A few minutes ago Dean had excused himself to check on Castiel once more. They were all feeling an increasing sense of urgency as the celestial continued to weaken throughout the day. He'd barely managed a single donut earlier and had quickly returned to bed.

 

The electronic lock clicks and whirs. Mary looks up and watches as her eldest son enters the room. She can see his worry etched in the lines of his face, the unconscious clenching of his fists as he joins her at the table. She raises her eyebrows in silent inquiry. Dean winces and shakes his head.

 

“He's not doing so great. I don't know what else to do.”

 

“Dean, we're all doing what we can,” she offers gently.

 

Dean sighs, leaning forward, elbows on the table, head propped on his hands. “I know, Mom. I just—I hate seeing him like this.”

 

She reaches over and rubs his shoulder comfortingly. “We all do.”

 

“He's so cold. I can feel it coming off him. I tried keeping him awake for a bit but...” He shakes his head. “It's like he's going through hypothermia in slow motion.”

 

Both their gazes turn to Sam, once again conferring with Tanaka over Skype to review the kuji-in.

 

“Do you...” Dean pauses, his voice cracking. “Do you really think this is going to work, Mom?”

 

Mary's heart aches for her son. There is no feeling as terrible as seeing a loved one suffer and being powerless to help them. “I don't know, Dean. You called them 'magic words' earlier, but we know for a fact that exorcisms work on demons—and really, what’s an exorcism other than a type of evocation? This mantra seems fairly similar in structure, so we have to hope it is equally effective.”

 

Dean scoffs. “Hope? That's never really been my forte.”

 

She frowns at him. “Then have faith.”

 

She senses immediately that wasn't the best reply as Dean jerks erect in his chair and glares at her.

 

“Faith?” he all but spits angrily. “You're kidding, right?”

 

“Dean,” she snaps harshly. “I still don't know what all you and your brother—and Cas—have been through, but from what I've been told, you have seen God himself with your very own eyes. But I'm not telling you to have faith in _Him_. I’ve seen enough in my time with you to know that faith is a sore subject. I'm telling you to have faith in your brother.”

 

She motions sharply at Sam, completely oblivious to their conversation. “No one will work harder or have a better chance of mastering this than your brother. He has a knack for spells and language. Now, maybe it would go better if Cas was well enough to help, but he isn't.”

 

Dean's face remains angry but she can see in his eyes that he is listening to her. Her mother's instincts are screaming he needs her help to find focus, some sense of clarity, before he loses himself to his anger and does something foolish.

 

“You also need to have faith in Cas. He’s old, and powerful. Even diminished, he’s formidable. He never leaves your side without a fight—and fighting is exactly what he is doing right now. With all he has, he’s holding on. He has faith in you, in Sam.”

 

At that Dean deflates, visibly chagrined. He refuses to meet her stern gaze as he nods. “Yeah. Okay, you're right.”

 

Mary leans back in her seat, muttering, “Damn right I am.”

 

Silence extends between them for several minutes. Both she and Dean watch as Sam converses with Tanaka and repeats the mantra yet again. Sam grimaces and nods at something the priest says. He starts softly intoning the syllables of the kuji-in again from the beginning, hands moving stiffly yet with growing proficiently through the complicated motions.

 

Next to her, Dean says softly, “Cas is going downhill fast, Mom. We have no choice but to do this tonight, because I'm not sure Cas can fight this another day.”

 

Mary closes her eyes at the pain and fear in her son's voice. She doesn't offer any more platitudes. Instead, she reaches for his hand, surprised to find it seeking her own across the tabletop. She twines her fingers into his and squeezes tight as Sam begins yet again.

 

 

Dean pulls the Impala to the shoulder of the road and parks her. He takes a deep breath and turns to his family. “Ready to roll?”

 

“I find that phrase confusing as we have, in fact, stopped rolling,” Cas remarks.

 

Dean cannot help the snort that comment elicits, shooting Cas a fond look. “Duly noted.”

 

“Okay,” he says as he pockets the keys, “Mom, you and me load up. Sam, hang with Cas.”

 

Sam nods, accepting the silent _I'm counting on you_ in Dean's voice. “Got it, Dean.”

 

Dean exits the car and heads to the trunk. He slings a rifle over one shoulder, stuffing his pockets with salt shells before grabbing the sawed-off shotgun. He watches as Mary finishes arming herself as well, mentally checking off their combined artillery. Mary looks up, signaling she’s ready to hunt. Dean pushes the trunk closed and knocks on the lid so Sam knows to start helping Cas out of the car.

 

The plan is to move away from the road, Sam assisting Cas, Dean and Mary following a few steps behind until well away from the highways. They’d decided on mounting their assault near where the initial encounter between Cas and the spirit had occurred. The snow underfoot has thankfully diminished somewhat over the past few days. The icy surface crunches with each step while above them, the night sky is clear, the moon is waxing gibbous, illuminating the snowy landscape. Conditions are ideal for now, but Dean mentally acknowledges that could change rapidly since the yuki-onna can affect the weather in her vicinity.

 

They walk slowly, accommodating Castiel's hesitant gait. Dean aches to go to his side but he refrains, tightening the grip on his shotgun instead. He needs to be ready to fire salt at the bitch to buy Sam time to complete the kuji-in. That’s how he's gonna help Cas best.

 

Earlier that evening, as they had discussed the plan, Castiel had listened attentively as Sam explained the evocation to him. He'd even requested that Sam show him each element separately, advising the younger Winchester to be very careful about using the kuji-in without focused intent. Cas had explained he recognized some of the intonations and their power evoking potential. He had even complimented Sam on his efforts, the gratitude in his voice unspoken but understood.

 

Dean loses track of how long they walk, senses on high alert for sight or sound of their prey. They crest a small ridge and see the terrain even out towards the distant Yellowstone River. Cas pauses, breathing heavier than Dean likes, but he abstains from commenting on it.

 

Cas pats Sam's arm, then inclines his head to Dean and Mary. “Keep well back like we discussed. I think our best chance is to let her focus her attention on me before you all move in.”

 

Mary quirks her head. “And you're sure she'll come?”

 

Cas gives her a strained, bittersweet smile. “I can already feel her. She's coming now.”

 

Dean swallows the urge to tuck Cas into his side and take him straight back to the car. His initial protests at using Cas as bait had been thoroughly shot down; he understands the reasoning, he simply hates the necessity of it. Dean forces saliva to wet his mouth and assures the angel, “We'll be right behind you, Cas.”

 

The look Cas gives him is deceivingly benign. “I know, Dean.”

 

Dean tugs off his gloves and shoves them in his pocket so that he has a better grip on the stock of his gun. He'd rather chance frostbite than miss a shot and risk Cas's life. He watches as Cas crunches across the snow. A chill wind rises, and the angel shivers, tugging his coat tighter.

 

“Sam,” Dean hisses, “Be ready.”

 

“I am.”

 

The air around them cools, condenses, and the next gust of wind sweeps across the land like a wail. Cas stumbles, going to one knee. Dean's breath catches in his throat and he unconsciously starts forward. He feels a tug on his jacket sleeve and glances back, following the slim hand on his arm up to his mother's face. Her eyes are full of understanding but her face is grimly set. She tightens her grip on his sleeve and shakes her head sharply. Dean fights down a growl and falls back next to her.

 

In front of him, Sam motions and Dean gazes past him where a shadow slides over the snow towards Castiel.

 

There is a good hundred yards or more between them at this point, too far for Dean's liking. Every instinct is screaming for him to be next to Cas this very second. Instead, he and Mary break off, moving slowly and carefully to flank the yuki-onna as she approaches the angel. Sam waits—he isn't to move in and begin the kuji-in until Dean and Mary have engaged the spirit.

 

Dean picks his way carefully left, edging slowly closer. His eyes stay on Cas, who has returned to his feet and appears to be talking to the yuki-onna. The spirit cocks her head, her other-worldly violet eyes intent on her prey. She glides effortlessly across the hard crust of ice, Cas carefully keeping space between them, avoiding the pale hand that lifts imploringly towards him.

 

That moment is, of course, when Dean's boot crunches loudly through an air pocket in the ice and snow and he goes down hard on one knee, losing his grip on the shotgun. The yuki-onna's head snaps up and she howls with outrage. Dean tears his eyes away and scrambles for his gun. He hears Mary shout, followed by the eruption of her firearm, the blast echoing in the wintry air. Their quarry shrieks as the salt pellets pierce her form. Cas falls to the ground, crab-walking clumsily backwards as Mary moves in, firing again and again.

 

A sudden blast of arctic air rockets across the landscape, snow and ice biting Dean's unprotected skin and eyes as he rushes in, his own gun blasting away. The yuki-onna jerks and wails with each hit, her eyes glowing malevolently. She extends her hand towards Cas, fingers curling like claws. Cas's limbs go rigid, a pained howl crawling free of his throat as he spasms in her thrall. Dean loses focus on anything else as he shouts for the angel and tears across the snow to ram the butt of his shot gun across the yuki-onna's face. Dean uses that momentum to dump the sawed off and swing the rifle off his back and place himself between her and Cas.

 

He feels more than hears Cas growl out his name. Dean ignores him, firing at nearly point blank range into the yuki-onna's chest. Dean feels a tug on his leg then the ground is rushing up to meet him unexpectedly. Cas shouts something that Dean misses in the wind and snow hammering at them, shaking his head that he doesn't understand. Cas launches himself at the hunter, pressing him into the snow, and out of the line of sight now between Sam and the yuki-onna.

 

 

Sam watches their attack play out from a reasonable distance, waiting for the opening he needs. He sees Dean break from their plan and rush in to confront the spirit and curses angrily.

 

“Goddamn it, Dean,” he growls and breaks into a run.

 

Sam fights the sudden blizzard rising up around them, skidding across the hard packed snow towards his family. He's moving in fast, hands coming up to form the first hand posture, when Dean puts himself directly into his path. He grinds his teeth and changes course, re-evaluating his best advantage for line of sight with the creature. Mary continues firing at the yuki-onna, keeping her several paces back from Dean and Cas, and giving Sam an opening, however slim.

 

Bless Cas though—he immediately realizes that Dean is compromising Sam's attack and tugs the hunter to the snow. Sam leaps a scrub brush and he's in place. He slaps his palms together, interlocking his third through fifth fingers, pointing his second digits heavenward and pressing in with his thumbs. [3]

 

He takes a breath, focusing on his inner self as Tanaka had instructed, imagining his essence, his _ki_ , glowing and strong, and shouts, “Rin!”

 

Sam doesn't hesitate as his fingers move to the second position. “Pyo!”

 

The yuki-onna's eyes lock on Sam, a furious screech ripping from her pale mouth. Her arm lifts towards the youngest Winchester and Sam braces himself for an icy blast, but it doesn't come as Mary empties another salt round into the spirit's left flank.

 

“To. Sha. Kai. Jin. Retsu. Zai. Zin!” Sam continues without pause, long fingers struggling to form each mudra. He knows he isn't performing this as sharply and precisely as Tanaka had, but he has to hope it will work.

 

The yuki-onna convulses and the wind dies to almost nothing. For one heart-stuttering moment, Sam thinks it worked, then that beautifully deadly face snaps back up, crystalline violet eyes boring into Sam's very soul. He feels like ice water is flowing in his veins instead of blood and he bites back a cry of pain, stumbling to his knees.

 

He is distantly aware of Dean shouting into the wind. Then a hand settles on his shoulder, gloved fingers tipping his chin up. Cas kneels before him looking pale and tired but giving Sam a soft, encouraging smile. “You’re not done, Sam. You can fight her. We can still prevail.”

 

“Cas...” Sam gasps weakly. His mind is fuzzy, the cold seeping into him all he can concentrate on.

 

The angel shifts behind him, whispering in his ear, “The priest told you another way, remember? The kuji-kiri, the nine cuts?”

 

Sam nods, forcing himself to pay attention to Cas's words. He ignores Dean and Mary shouting instructions to one another, the sound of gunfire, the snarl of the yuki-onna, and turns his mind to Castiel.

 

Cas's hands press to Sam's back, palms fitted to the angle of his shoulder blades. “Concentrate. Focus on your intent, Sam. I know you can do this.”

 

Sam's eyes flutter shut and he raises his hands. Again, he seeks his core, concentrating on gathering his ki. He feels warmth along his shoulders, Cas’s feeble grace radiating blue-white and familiar down Sam’s arms. Sam positions his left forearm parallel the ground, his right bent at the elbow, hand extended sharply skyward. He takes a breath, feels Cas's breathing match his own. Tanaka's voice is in his head—“Use this version only if in great need, Sam. It is dangerous if not controlled. Your aim, your _intent_ , must never falter.”

 

Sam sweeps his hand swiftly towards the ground. “Rin!”

 

He snaps his arm down to match the left, and draws is back with military position towards his right flank. “Pyo!”

 

As if from a great distance, he hears the yuki-onna scream with pain. His eyes open slowly, almost as if he is in a trance. He repeats the vertical movement. “To!”

 

A red slash appears across the spirit's visage and she jerks back trying to escape the attack. Sam feels more than hears Castiel mumble something softly against his neck. He cannot afford to divide his attention, however. He brings his arm flat, and draws back. “Sha!”

 

Another red slash. Another shriek.

 

His brother and mother start to fall back, never taking their eyes off the yuki-onna.

 

Downward slash. “Kai!”

 

Parallel slash. “Jin!”

 

Sam can feel himself tiring, his ki surging into each intonation, powering his intent.

 

Downward slash. “Retsu!”

 

Before him, the yuki-onna spasms. She crumbles to her knees in the snow, her hair falling around her like an inky veil. Her gaze comes up, eyes no longer glowing malevolently.

 

Parallel slash. “Zai!”

 

She clutches her chest as another red slash rips through her incorporeal form.

 

Something large and solid leans heavily against Sam's back but he ignores it, has no choice but to push the awareness of it to the back of his mind. One more cut and he'll have her.

 

Downward slash. “Zin!”

 

The final crimson slash renders the yuki-onna in two, her agonized wails abruptly silenced. Her visage pulses, falters, then vanishes. Heavy, blissful silence falls across them.

 

 

Sam lets out a breathless huff, disbelief and excitement bubbling up his strained throat. His arms fall to his sides and he lets his weight settle on his thighs where he kneels in the snow. He hears Dean whoop in victory, sees Mary turn to grace him with a proud smile. Suddenly, her face shifts, eyes widening in fear and Sam blinks slowly with confusion.

 

Sam starts to turn, only now coming back to himself enough to feel the weight against his back shift and collapse to his right as he moves.

 

He realizes with a sickening twist of his gut that it's Cas sliding boneless and limp next to him in the snow. He grapples for a grip on the angel's coat and pulls him forcefully against his chest. He wraps an arm around him, the other cupping his face, lifting his head to Sam's panicked gaze. Cas's lids are bruise-smudged and his lips nearly blue in his unnaturally pale face. Fear ratchets Sam's pulse into a furious pounding in his ears as he shifts his palm.

 

No breath.

 

“Dean!”

 

 

**One Week Later**

 

Mary hums as she grabs a bottle of juice from the fridge, closing the door with her hip. With her free hand, she snags the bag of magazines she bought the night before off the table. The bunker is quiet around her as she leaves the kitchen, bypassing the war room and heading down the corridor to the private quarters.

 

She reaches the door with '11' on the brass placard, giving a polite knock before opening the door and smiling at the occupant.

 

“Morning, Cas,” she greets warmly.

 

Castiel smiles brightly up at her. He's lounging comfortably against the headboard, a book in his lap. Mary plops next to him on the bed, flicking his flannel clad legs playfully. “Rocking the plaid. Truly a Winchester now.”

 

He blushes. “Mary.”

 

She laughs. “I can tease, can't I? I mean, this is—was—Dean's room. Now, _your_ room.”

 

The blush deepens and Mary gives a mental little cheer. She wonders what it says about her that she enjoys teasing an angel so much. She pops the cap off the juice bottle and hands it to Cas.

 

“Your OJ, sir.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“So,” Mary says, setting the shopping bag in her lap, the plastic crinkling under her hands. “I kicked Dean out of the bunker for the morning.”

 

Cas's brow furrows. “Alright, but I don’t understand why?”

 

Mary chuckles. “Come on. He was driving _me_ nuts with his hovering. He had to have been driving you crazy, too.”

 

Cas picks at the label of his juice bottle. “Dean has been very attentive.”

 

“Hovering.”

 

“Mary,” he says, his tone thick with disapproval.

 

“What?” she laughs. “He's my son. I can judge. And truly, it's adorable how he's been so _attentive_ , as you said, which makes me wonder about sitting on this bed, actually.”

 

An even more impressive flush stains Cas's tanned cheeks, the celestial fumbling over frantic, adamant, denials. Mary watches with a pleased smirk before finally patting Cas's hand and letting him off the hook.

 

“Again, Cas. I’m only teasing you. I figure you haven't been, well, _well enough_ , for anything too risque.”

 

Mary thinks about the final confrontation with the yuki-onna a week prior. Her smile fades as she remembers seeing Cas slump lifelessly to Sam's side, the fear in Sam's voice as he held the angel close and shouted for his brother. Dean had been frantic as he shouldered Sam away from the celestial. He'd shouted and shaken the still form, voice growing more desperate with every passing moment.

 

Dean's anguish had broken Mary's heart as she stood powerless, watching her boys try to revive their friend. Before she'd realized it, there were tears freezing on her face. Numbly, she'd let her arms drop, her shotgun hanging loosely in her grip as she crunched slowly closer. She watched as Sam warmed his hand under his jacket before checking once again for a pulse. He'd nearly sobbed with relief when he shouted that there was one, albeit faint and weak. She stood a silent vigil as Dean took Cas's face in his shaking hands and tilted his head back, sealing his mouth to Cas's blue lips, trying to breathe life-saving air back into his angel.

 

Minutes passed, Sam rubbing warmth into Cas's hands and arms as Dean continued rescue-breaths. The whole of existence seemed to simply stop for a single heart-wrenching moment as Cas gasped a feeble mewl and turned his face into the curve of Dean's hand. Relieved, choking laughter had burst from both her children in response. Her own breath gusted out of her, not having realized she was holding it in hopeful suspense.

 

Dean had pulled Cas against him, wrapping his arms tight and pressing his face into the crook of the angel's neck as he shook with relief. Sam slumped forward and pressed his forehead against the angel's back as great shuddering breaths shook his large frame. After collecting himself, he'd pushed to his feet and turned to Mary, eyes glistening with tears and cheeks stained red with cold. He'd smiled and Mary had finally let herself relax.

 

No one said a word about the drying tracks of moisture on Dean's face as he'd helped a weak but conscious Cas to his feet, nor when he climbed into the backseat of the Impala and pulled Castiel to lay atop him.

 

The next several hours were a blur. They'd only returned to the motel long enough to gather their belongings. At first, Dean had argued they leave Cas's truck so Sam could drive the Impala while Dean remained in the back with the angel, but Cas had roused himself long enough to protest, glaring weakly but with determination at them all until Dean finally ground out a terse agreement. In the end, Cas had slept alone, wrapped in stolen blankets in the backseat as Dean drove, Sam taking Cas's pickup, and Mary rounding out their little caravan in her own car.

 

Once they'd arrived at the bunker, Dean had quickly ushered Castiel into his bedroom and forced the angel into bed. Cas had fallen deeply asleep within minutes despite his protests of having slept enough in the car. Over the course of the intervening days, Dean had barely left Cas's side, a slightly haunted look lingering in his green eyes every time the angel yawned or shivered. Sam and Mary had taken turns at the recuperating angel's bedside to make sure Dean took care of himself as well, though those efforts had only initially been successful after much cajoling — and actual threats of being drugged and trussed up in another room.

 

Mary blinks back to the present and realizes Castiel is watching her concernedly. She grimaces and waves away his worry. “I'm fine. Just lost in thought for a moment.”

 

She chews her lip, examining the lines of the angel's face, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. She sighs and reaches up, brushing his dark fringe away from those ridiculously blue eyes of his. He blinks in confusion at her, head quirking to the side. The look he gives her is so endearing, so innocently bewildered, she can't help but shake her head and chuckle warmly in response.

 

Mary pats his cheek before withdrawing her hand back to her lap. “You need a haircut.”

 

Cas frowns. “I've never had one. Is it difficult to learn?”

 

She snorts. “We'll look into it later.”

 

“Mary, where did you send Dean?”

 

She grins mischievously. “Why? Do you miss him already?”

 

“N-no, that’s not...”

 

“Teasing again Castiel!”, she assures him with a laugh, which earns her an adorably grumpy glare. “Anyway, to answer your question, I sent him to the grocery store. And I insisted Sam go, too. I gave them a list, which should prove entertaining once they get towards the bottom of it.” She grins.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Oh, I may have added tampons, Midol, and Monistat to the list. Hidden between oatmeal and margarine for added surprise factor,” she cackles, pleased with herself.

 

Cas, however, just looks utterly baffled.

 

“Let me guess, you don't understand why I think that's funny right?”

 

“That would be correct.”

 

She can feel the devilish grin splitting her face. “Ask the boys about it when they get back.”

 

Cas sighs, disappointed she won't explain. He finishes his juice and sets the empty bottle on the nightstand. The angel makes a show of returning to his reading for several minutes, during which Mary just allows herself to close her eyes and enjoy the peace and calm. She can practically feel Cas's curiosity building next to her though. Mary lets her eyes slit barely open and sees Cas eyeing the shopping bag in her lap.

 

“Mary.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What is in the bag?”

 

Mary fully opens her eyes and tilts her head to smile happily at him before answering. “Gardening magazines. I thought we should start planning. Spring will be here before you know it.”

 

The smile that follows her answer is surprised, pleased, and down right beautiful. Yeah, she totally gets what Dean sees in this strange and endearing creature. She can already feel herself growing terribly fond of him herself, having seen the bonds that tied him to her two sons first hand. Cas asks for the magazines and they spend the next hour or more discussing native plants, cooking and magical herbs, and what flowers will best attract bees.

 

It's heading into afternoon and Mary is just starting to consider enticing Cas up to the kitchen for lunch when she hears the rumble of the Impala returning. A moment passes, then a slamming door and an enraged shout echoes through the bunker, “MOM!”

 

Mary erupts into peals of laughter, much to Cas's bemusement. When she doesn't answer, Dean once more shouts through the bunker, insisting she's a jerk for making them buy her _girly things_ and demanding she comes take them immediately. She starts laughing even harder, curling to press her face into Cas's shoulder.

 

A hesitant hand settles on her shaking back, rubbing small circles as she tries to calm her giggles.

 

Cas's voice is as smooth as aged whiskey when he whispers gently in her ear, “It's nice to be home, isn't it?”

 

Mary sits up, wiping moisture from her eyes, and beams at the angel. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

 

The End.

 

01/2017

Ed. 03/2017, 06/2017

 

 

[1] [ http://yokai.com/yukionna/](http://yokai.com/yukionna/) 

[2] [ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuji-in](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuji-in) 

[3] [ https://youtu.be/r79uHRsQ9TA ](https://youtu.be/r79uHRsQ9TA)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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